Careful What You Wish For
by wzlwmn
Summary: Christine returns to the lair in search of Erik. Dark, Leroux based Erik.
1. Chapter 1

Christine kissed me. For one moment, it was me she loved. For one moment, I was truly human. So I let her go with her boy. There was nothing for it, really. The mob was closing on my lair with murder on their minds. I had to make my escape, and the last thing I needed was a lovestruck ingénue slowing me down.

I scuttled down my rat-hole just in time. I clenched my teeth in rage as I heard them stomp through my rooms, rifle through my music. Violation. At that moment, I thanked god that murderer though I may be, I have never been a rapist.

They did not stay long. The discarded mask and no sign of the two lovebirds were sufficient. They congratulated themselves loudly that the monster was no more and beat a hasty retreat, nearly pissing themselves to get away in case the monster should rise from the grave.

I remained in my hiding place for awhile after it fell silent. With the threat of my discovery and subsequent disembowelment lifted, my thoughts returned to Christine. If I closed my eyes, I could still feel her velvet lips on mine, smell the intoxicating fragrance of her hair, hear her voice. My voice; a voice I'd discovered, nurtured, loved, guided, molded, and given to the world; a voice I'd never hear again. I felt something begin to tear inside me. Not now, I choked, fighting it down, I cannot grieve for her now. Morphine. I crawled from my hole in a quest for peace of mind.

My lair looked unchanged; nothing missing except the mask. Ghouls; souvenir hunters. My priceless music, my books and artwork, all of it remained untouched—unworthy of pillage to their ignorant eyes.

I searched my room and any other place I could think of, but there was no morphine. There was always some laudanum, however. A poor expedient, but it should be sufficient to send me to oblivion for awhile. Dreamless sleep where Christine cannot find me. Making a mental note to seek out the daroga for opium as soon as possible, I took several swigs of the nasty stuff and lay down in my coffin, waiting to go far away.

I hate laudanum. Where opium is a clean, pure oblivion, laudanum sometimes plays cruel tricks on my already addled mind. For instance, as I lay there, the laudanum made me imagine Christine's voice calling to me. This auditory hallucination was actually clever enough to wax and wane, as if she were roaming the rooms of my lair, searching for me. And this was not the normal, compliant, angelic Christine of my agitated fantasies; this one was weepy and pleading. Clearly more laudanum was needed to shut me down.

As I exited my bedroom to retrieve the rest of my potion, I was brought up short by my own Christine.

"You're safe! I knew they wouldn't find you," she sobbed, slipping into my arms. For an hallucination, she was surprisingly warm and fragrant, if bedraggled. Feeling at a distinct disadvantage, I asked her how she came to be in my parlor.

"I made Raoul bring me back. I realized I can't leave you, I can't leave our music behind. I love you, Erik, I want to stay with you. Can you ever forgive me for betraying you?" she pleaded, all cow eyes and quivering lip.

In a black and twisted recess of my mind, I reflected how satisfying it might feel to make her beg, to watch her grovel and swear anything, but it was a foregone conclusion, really. I cannot deny her anything.

She kissed me again, passionately this time. I was suddenly tormented by morbid fantasies of what mischief she might have gotten up to with that vapid boy during my three-month absence. I spat something at her about how her prince had had his way with her and now wanted nothing further to do with her.

"What sort of fool do you take me for, Christine? Do you really expect me to take you in, now that you've got his bastard and you've nowhere else to go?"

"No, Erik that's not true! Raoul never touched me, I swear it," she wailed.

"You'd say anything now to save your hide!"

"I'll…prove it…now, if you wish…" she offered, terrified and desperate.

I looked at my little Christine: barefoot and badly in need of a bath, her eyes and nose were streaming, her dress filthy and damp, her hair disheveled. She was absolutely exquisite to my adoring eyes. She was offering me everything I'd dreamt of, more than I'd imagined. But I couldn't.

"That isn't necessary…I should not have I accused you. I know you are a good girl, Christine." Then she was in my arms again, and soon I was wishing she was not such a good girl.

In self defense, I packed her off to a hot bath. I made a quick inspection of all means of ingress to my home, ensuring security until I could make some improvements. Wading through the chilly water provided the added benefit of cooling my badly overheated blood.

Christine's gown was utterly ruined, so I provided her one of my shirts to wear for the short term. I could not have imagined what a fetching picture she would make in that oversized, ruffled rag of mine, and it made for an uncomfortable evening. I fed her, gave her a bedtime sherry and packed her off to sleep. I fiddled at the piano for awhile, another useless exercise. The thought of those luscious breasts, jiggling innocently against the same fabric which had formerly brushed against my chest…I could not make any music come. I was at the point of giving my agony to the remaining laudanum when my unwitting temptress appeared at her door.

"Erik? I can't sleep. Will you sing to me?"

I perched on the edge of the bed. Uncomfortably, good: the more uncomfortable, the better, under the immediate circumstances. I began to sing, and Christine closed her eyes. She was so still, I thought she was asleep until she reached for my hand. Her little hands cradled it against her cheek. I continued singing until once again I was sure she'd fallen asleep. As I attempted to extract my hand, she reached for a handful of my shirt and whispered, "Erik, your voice makes me feel as if you've kissed me. I know it sounds terribly wicked." Her eyes glowed huge and childlike in the candle glow.

"I don't think you're wicked at all, my love," I assured her. If you only knew…

She tugged on my shirt. "Kiss?"

"Christine, dear," I sighed, with more forbearance that I believed myself capable of, "now you're here, I would hate to take unfair advantage of your trust."

"Oh, but I trust you, Erik, I do," she insisted, wide-eyed, "I know you would never harm me!" You are one flimsy bit of fabric away from harm, you little fool. "You…want to marry me still, don't you?"

"Of course I do, Christine, if that is what you want," I smiled weakly. She nodded vigorously, "Oh, yes, more than anything," she swore, throwing her arms around my neck. I relented and allowed my arms to buckle, stretching out beside her; Christine got the kiss she'd insisted on, and more. My fingers found their way under the ruffles and brushed a perfect rosebud nipple. She breathed surprise against my lips, her tongue fluttered against mine. I kissed her throat; she gasped and wriggled against me. I continued my progress until my tongue teased her nipple. I was drunk with sensation: Christine's flesh, petal-soft, with a fragrance so heady that the room seemed to spin; Christine's fingertips, trailing fire over my cheek, neck, and chest; Christine's lips, honeyed wine; Christine's musical sighs, the voice of heaven.

Heaven, indeed. My hand slithered under the shirt hem, made stealthily up her thigh for the rise of her hip. I was nearing my objective when Christine fired a salvo of ice water at my loins. Her lips just brushing my ear, her sweet breath: "It's alright, isn't it, Erik, if we're going to marry?"

I've lied to her before. No doubt I will again. Why, just then, could I not say what we both wanted to hear? I retreated. Self-loathing welled up inside me yet again; whether it was aimed at my lust or my forbearance, I cannot say.

"I must quit you now, Christine," I spat. The sacrificial victim was wounded, confused at my rejection.

"I've done something wrong," she deduced.

"Not at all," I replied. I dared not look at her.

"You're angry with me!" I heard a tremor of tears in her voice, compelling me to turn back to reassure her. The oversized shirt had slipped from her shoulder; again her creamy flesh beckoned me. I tore my eyes away and bolted from her in a fury.

I locked myself away in my sanctuary. Even with the laudanum, I was tormented with agitated dreams of Christine.

I awoke well before Christine—I have never required much sleep—and immediately went above to stock up on whatever feminine necessities I could think of for the short term. I would bring her up soon for a proper shopping spree, but the idea of Christine scampering about in my shirt all day was…untenable.

It was a disaster. I could have fended for myself had it just been for the dresses, hose, shoes, and that sort of thing, but the assortment of nonsense that women wear _under_ their dresses is endless. I may as well have been among the Hottentots. I had no idea where or how to begin, and while the sales clerk was helpful enough, the little tart was clearly enjoying herself at my expense. There was nothing for it, I was forced to drag Christine above ground immediately to get her provisioned.

Our reunion after the debacle of the previous night was rendered painless, happily. She was solemn and cow-eyed until I mentioned 'shopping', whereupon all her embarrassing questions about my distressing behavior evaporated. It seems to be a tenet of the feminine canon that a shopping trip rights nearly all wrongs between a couple.

I would never have chosen to come above ground so soon if Christine were not all but nude. It was only a day after the fiasco at the Opera House and it was daylight. As a result, I was even more on edge that usual, if that is possible. Then, Christine was seized by some sort of madness when we began to shop. I now realize that it is a common shopping mania to which all of her sex is prey, but at the time…I needed morphine.

As it happens, all these frilly, lacy things which go under the dress are critical, and Christine is driven to raptures by them, the frillier and lacier the better. In my observation, raptures may also occur over fur muffs in colors completely unknown to nature, things to make the woman smell like anything but a woman, and chocolates. Yes, I recognize that chocolates were not, strictly speaking, a part of the expedition plan, but...I actually enjoyed spoiling her, saying yes to everything she desired, especially after the disastrous 'no' of last night. I was amply rewarded with squeals of delight, kisses, and bounces of sheer joy. The bouncing is quite charming, actually. My only faux-pas of the day occurred when I suggested that the lotions, powders, eau de colognes, and what-not were unnecessary, as she smells quite lovely as God made her. Christine's mortified glare assured me that only a bachelor denizen of the bowels of the Opera House could suggest such blasphemy. Suitably chastened, I resumed my silent vigil as coat and parcel pack-mule.

The astute reader will note that I have omitted jewelry from the list of rapture-inducing objects. I will argue that it is with good reason; jewelry is in a league of its own where women are concerned. They are baffling creatures…I honestly had no idea what I was letting myself in for. She tried every ring in the shop on her dear little finger before settling on a blood-red ruby, in the shape of a heart, no less, surrounded by diamonds. I was completely extraneous to the process until the time came to pay for the trinket. Anyway, we tossed the pedestrian piece of junk that Prince Charming had given her into the lake as a part of our official engagement celebration.

It was an exhausting day, most of which I spent in mortal fear of being discovered and subsequently set upon and torn to pieces. I would not have traded one minute of it for the world. I was as close to a normal man as I ever had been, in the fresh air and daylight with my intended on my arm. Even now I am overcome as I recall it.

My initial idea of a wedding had been Christine and I dressing up, drinking some champagne, swearing undying love, singing together, drinking more champagne, and falling into bed. How naïve I was. Once my prima donna usurped the plans, the proceedings ballooned into a genuine service in a genuine church full of flowers, complete with a genuine priest. "I was raised in the Church, Erik, weren't you?" blink blink. Mme Giry, that flighty Meg and my Persian friend were conscripted as witnesses. Once witnesses are added, a wedding supper is de rigeur.

I returned one afternoon from modifying some tunnels and was horrified to hear two female voices squealing and tittering in my formerly peaceful dungeon. My darling was conspiring with Meg the witless on the matter of a trousseau.

"The other trip was just _regular_ shopping, Erik. I need all new things to wear as a bride, and I've always dreamed of my own silver and crystal and china, and linens and you knew I would wish to redecorate, didn't you? It's so…gloomy down here."

OH. While the ladies continued their chirping, I sat down directly and penned a little note to my managers, explaining that I could not possibly be expected to continue on a paltry twenty four thousand francs annually, as I'd taken on a bottomless money pit in the form of a delectable young bride.

Women are natural disasters, it seems to me. One is never adequately prepared and the havoc is incalculable. The closer I came to the day I'd most fervently wished for, the more irritable I became. The culmination of a lifetime of sexual frustration should have been sufficient, but I admit I had grown comfortable in my routines. My home was clean and comfortable and suited me without redecorating.


	2. Chapter 2

My irritation did not survive my first glimpse of Christine at our wedding. I confess I was a blubbering mess for much of the day. Madame Giry and Daroga did not remain dry-eyed either. I drank their health and told them in all sincerity that I could never repay all their kindnesses to me. It was a fine wedding. I felt surrounded by warmth and love. I felt nearly normal, and blessed more than I had any right to be.

When Christine and I returned to our home—_our_ home!—I played and we sang. Our voices danced, swirled in the air like plumes of smoke; our voices merged, entwining like lovers. Could there be any equal to the intimacy between Christine and me when we sing?

When we finished our song, she was breathless and her eyes were blazing as I'd never seen them. I pulled her into my arms and kissed her for the first time without restraint. Overwhelmed, she placed her hand against my chest.

"I'm going to have a bath,' she whispered, blushing.

While Christine soaked, I drank and paced and blasphemed under my breath. How _dare_ she put me off after all this time? Scenes of incredible marital violence exploded behind my eyes; all red and black, and I was confronted with the bitter truth: I am no normal man and never can be. I may dress up as one and pretend, but Christine had wed a monster.

I pleaded with my tortured mind to leave me in peace for just one day until Christine padded silently up to me, tiny and barefoot in a diaphanous gown frothy with lace. I kissed her hand and touched my forehead to hers. She turned and drew me wordlessly to the bedroom. She averted her eyes in modesty as I undressed and came into my arms hesitantly when I reached for her. The fire in her eyes had banked, replaced again with uncertainty. She reached for my mask, the silent question on her face. I drew a breath for courage, nodded acceptance of the inevitable and closed my eyes. The air was cool on my malformed cheek and I turned away from Christine instinctively. She reached for the ruined flesh, stroked it lovingly. She kissed me and let my silent tears fall until I was empty.

I began to kiss her where I found myself, against her neck, and she responded with shivers. My hands swam over breasts, ribs, hips, thighs—gently, gently, Erik, slowly.

My unslaked need threatened to overtake me. My body throbbed and ached all over, as if my entire body had metamorphosed into a giant phallus. Gently, my hand sought Christine's center. Her thighs clamped shut reflexively. Her eyes sought mine uncertainly in the candle light. My eyes assured her, yes, Christine, absolutely, now. Her legs relaxed slowly, reluctantly, until eventually I was free to move my hand again. Slowly I stroked, barely touching her. She was infinitely soft, warm and moist. I shuddered, nearly overcome. My fingertip parted those lips and glided toward her sacred bud. Christine gasped in surprise and rocked her hips slightly. Encouraged, I continued my explorations.

Christine responded violently to my ministrations. She clawed at my shoulders to pull me into a kiss. Her little tongue plunged into my mouth, darting forward to find my tongue before retreating, only to attack again. She raised her hips to meet my fingers, whimpering insistently. I was awed; I was nonplussed; I was detumescent. To say my ardor cooled is to grossly understate. My ardor _evaporated, instantly_. I continued my fiddling, confident that this unpleasant development would be a fleeting one. Christine's purrs urged me to action, but the warmer she became, the colder I turned. It was only a matter of minutes before my panic outstripped my confusion.

I pushed her away, groping for my mask on the bed beside her. Christine stared at me in utter disbelief. I pleaded the considerate husband. It had been a long, tiring, emotional day, I allowed, and I did not wish to overtax her delicate sensibilities any further tonight. After all, we had a lifetime now, did we not? I left my dumbstuck bride with a parting kiss on the forehead to slink back to my coffin, where I wept in shame, frustration and abject despair.

I cannot say which of us looked more dreadful in the morning. Breakfast conversation was surreal. I maintained the fiction that all was perfectly as it should be; taking her cue from me, Christine tried not to let me catch her gazing at me in confusion. I was absolutely convinced that last night's performance—or rather, lack thereof—had been an aberration and that tonight would see Christine well and truly bedded. I had no reason not to be so convinced; all was well in working order again, I noted happily when she kissed me good morning. As the day wore on, I spent more of it aroused than not; my darling bride's mere presence saw to that.

Sometime after supper my manhood abandoned me again. I scrabbled to the rooftops of panic. Ugly voices and mocking laughter echoed through my mind's dark caverns. _Failed her already. What were you thinking? The pretty fop would have had the job done by now._

When Christine disappeared into the bath, I raced to my Persian friend for morphine. He greeted me with a smile: "Ah, Benedick, the married man!"

Of its own accord, my hand flew around his throat; everything before my eyes was red as my rage hemorrhaged. I apologized profusely and pleaded a bridegroom's modesty; I am certain he saw through that when I pressed him for morphine on my first full day of married life. He gave me what I demanded with a slight nod, asked me to remember him to Christine. My dear friend…

I pretended to be composing feverishly when Christine rejoined me. I smiled through my lying teeth and promised her I'd be in directly, "You go on ahead, my love, I just need to finish one thing." Once she'd disappeared into the bedroom, I took still more opium and slunk off to my hole like the vermin-infested dog I was. In the morning, I apologized and told Christine I'd worked so late that I felt guilty about waking her.

I managed to hold her off in this fashion for some time, but with each passing day, my guts churned with guilt whenever she looked at me, her eyes pleading with me to help her understand. When I lay in my coward's coffin at night, before the morphine overtook me, my guilt turned to anger that my precious Christine had become a nagging, insatiable succubus. Yes, I blamed her; what other explanation could there be but that Christine had cursed me, somehow stolen my virility? Even with themorphine to numb me, I careened through nightmare scenes where I screamed my outrage at her, forcing her to her knees to plead for forgiveness. Often the dreams would end as I forced myself on her in some unspeakable way. The final dream, more vivid than life, was one in which Christine was naked and bound as I took her. It was thrilling…I awoke with a start and realized I'd polluted myself. I also realized what I had to do.

I was a new man the next day; rather, the old, suave Erik that had swept Christine off her virginal feet. I'd gotten up after my…accident…and created two new lassos. I had a bath and fixed her a lovely breakfast. I even went 'upstairs' for strawberries. Christine positively glowed to see that my jaw was unclenched.

"I'm glad you're not angry with me anymore," she confessed.

"But I was never angry with you, darling, how could I be? I've been solitary for a long time; you will become used to your husband's black moods in time." She perched happily on my lap and snuggled. My demon stirred in my trousers, suggesting that perhaps there was no need to wait til evening for our little party. It wasn't as if daylight made a difference where we were.

"Christine, come to bed?"

"_Now_? Erik, it's morning!" she whispered, scandalized.

"So?" I nuzzled her neck, teased her flawless breasts awake. I noted her frisson with satisfaction.

"Alright," she smiled.

"You go warm the sheets, I'll be along directly," I smiled. I collected my lassos and dropped them beside the bed. Christine was fussing with pillows and did not notice. I lit an additional candelabrum, undressed and slid in beside her.

"It's so bright," Christine worried as I pressed her down.

"You're so exquisite," I replied. The compliment pleased her, but I believe she would have preferred the darkness and gone without the compliment. _Good_. The more uncomfortable she was, the more rigid I grew.

Christine responded warmly, candles or not. She was soon juicy and insistent once more.

"Christine, let us remove this," I drew her gown up and off as her eyelids flickered rapidly.

"Must we?" she worried.

"Absolutely," I whispered, pulling her close. She started at the first meeting of skin to skin, but my renewed attentions put her at her heated ease soon enough.

I slipped away, drawing the sheets with me. She clutched at them anxiously.

"You won't need them, my love, they'll be in the way," I assured her. Once this registered, she reached for a pillow.

"No, Christine, let me look at you." She glowed scarlet, even in the candlelight. She arranged her hair and legs artfully enough to give herself some modicum of coverage. Just wait, I thought.

"Just a few minor adjustments," I promised her. She turned away as I slithered off the bed, in anticipation of my inevitable return.

I took Christine's near hand, kissed it and had her wrist secured before she turned to see what I was doing. I crawled across her torso in pursuit of her other wrist, which prevented her demanding an explanation immediately. She was too preoccupied with clamping her eyes shut tight in case she saw more of me than she was prepared for. I found myself chuckling as I secured her other wrist.

"Really, my love, you've seen my face. Surely nothing is as bad as all that." I crawled back across her after the other lasso.

"What are you doing?" she whined.

"I'm going to make love to you, Christine," I caught her little foot, kissed and sucked her toes. She began to kick and twist, fighting me.

"Christine, don't be naughty. Let Erik have your foot," I said evenly.

"Why?" she demanded hotly. She actually seemed angry; it had a delightful effect on me.

"Because I'm the husband, dear, and I say so." I stopped playing and wrenched her leg out straight. "If you cooperate, there is no reason for this to be unpleasant, Christine. I'm merely trying to insure that we both enjoy ourselves," I explained, securing the final limb.

"I'm not enjoying myself already!" Christine insisted.

"Now, now, give it a fair trial. You've nothing to compare it to, Darling."

I stepped back to admire my handiwork and found myself deeply moved and incredibly aroused. I climbed between those inviting thighs and whispered love into her ear. I kissed her tenderly and she might have responded, but I rubbed the straining demon against her treasure and she shrieked and tried to writhe. I had to sit back for a moment to appreciate that.

"Please don't shriek like that again, Christine, you nearly deafened me. What did you imagine this was all leading up to?" That shriek had mildly irritated me.

"Please, I'm frightened, Erik," her lip quivered as I moved over her again. She was deliciously slippery, and it was delightful torture to sport about in the general vicinity, knowing I could take what I wanted at any time.

"There's no need, my love. Have I ever hurt you?"

"No," she admitted.

"No, and neither will I hurt you now. I love you, Christine, you know that." She nodded in agreement. "Nothing will happen here other than what's expected of any married couple. It's time."

"But…must it be like this?"

"I am afraid so, darling." I slid half off her and resumed my caresses. "But, to assure you of my good faith, I'll take pains to insure that I cause you as little discomfort as possible." So saying, I slipped a finger ever so gently just inside the gates of the temple. Christine gave a squeal and her eyes flew open wide.

"You said you wouldn't hurt me," she accused.

"Oh, well, it always hurts a girl the first time, but that's not my fault, that's nature," I excused. "Anyway, I don't think I hurt you nearly as much as you're letting on. It's a bit snug, that's all. Don't worry, we'll see to it."

"I am sure this must be a sin," she mumbled, squinting at me in a fit of Catholic pique.

"If anyone is sinful here, it's surely you, Christine. What did the priest tell you, hm? What did you promise?" I asked.

"To love you in sickness and health."

"Right, and what else?"

"Til death do us part."

"And?"

"To honor you."

"Mm…"

"To keep myself…um…"

"Yes, yes, keep yourself only unto me, and what else?"

"Obey you, "she grumbled.

"Ah, you see? I knew you remembered. There, that's beginning to feel nice, isn't it?"

"Yes," she admitted grudgingly.

I kissed her until she responded, then turned my attention to her intoxicating breasts. Soon she was purring and straining against her restraints in a different way.

"Erik," she twisted her wrists and wriggled her fingers, reaching for me futilely. I claimed her mouth with my own, in defense of my ears, and slipped inside her as deeply as I could. Rather than screaming, Christine welcomed me with something like a stunned hiccough. Paralyzed, I was struggling for control of myself. Hot, snug; exquisite pleasure or pain? I couldn't be certain. My body knew what to do; primal, it began to move inexorably as my consciousness, hopelessly lost, sought anything familiar. It found Christine's breath in my ear; my lighthouse, my way back to shore. I whispered her name in gratitude; my own voice sounded miles away. I began driving into her with more abandon; she cried out wordlessly. I was drenched in sweat and I felt something gathering inside me. My body surged toward release. I heard a voice: "Not yet," and realized it was my own. I withdrew and rained kisses over Christine's neck and breasts. She wriggled as much as the lassos would allow. I moved lower still, tracing her ribs with my tongue, nibbling at her hipbones. I teased her, trailed kisses across her belly, lower…she caught her breath, held it…and I moved my lips to her inner thigh. A shuddering moan escaped her lips.

"What is it, Christine?" I murmured. "What do you want?"

"You know," she whimpered, trying to raise her hips to reach me.

"I don't know, you must tell me," I crooned. "Tell me, Darling, what shall Erik do?"

Christine continued to whimper, tossing her head side to side. She fought against speaking it.

"You must ask for it, Christine. Ask for it…" My fingers traveled spider-like up and down her thighs, brushing ever so faintly against her downy muff. God, what a fragrance her arousal emitted. How long could I resist burying my face in her, drinking deep? How I'd dreamt of devouring her…my wife. My _wife_!

"Erik…" Christine breathed faintly, "don't make me say."

"Say, Christine. What shall Erik do? Shall he kiss it? Shall he lick it?"

"Mm, yesss."

"Tell me, tell Erik."

"Kiss it," she whispered harshly. "Lick it!"

When my lips met her sweet treasure, Christine sobbed gratefully. She quickly fell silent as my tongue began to stroke and savor her. Her fragrance enveloped me; her taste was indescribable. I slipped a finger inside her gently as I commenced to flick my tongue over her eager bud. Her hips dictated a rhythm for my digits to follow. My efforts were rewarded when her legs began to tremble and she keened a tuneless note. Her shudders came more violently, overtaking her entire body as she cried, "I'm dying!" She clenched and released my finger in culmination; her hips bucked uncontrollably. I felt a knifelike pain on my lip and tasted blood in my mouth. I was grateful she was tied down.

I sucked on my lip and resheathed myself inside my still-trembling beloved.

Christine whispered my name and captured my eyes with hers. I rocked slowly, tenderly with her until once again my body overtook my mind and I plumbed her feverishly. Again the storm gathered, not to be denied this time. The trembling began at the base of my spine, at my core. I threw back my head and roared my victory as my entire being flowed molten into Christine. I released the lassos quickly and gathered Christine into my arms.

"Christine, I love you, I love you, I love you," I wept.


	3. Chapter 3

I was wrenched from peaceful sleep by the smell of smoke.

"Christine? _Christine!_" I donned trousers and mask and flew from the bedroom.

Christine was in the kitchen. A pan on the stove spewed flames and black smoke as she fluttered ineffectually about. Automatically, I snatched the flaming pan from the stove, howling as the handle seared my hand. I sped to the lake edge and flung the pan as far as it would go. I settled on my haunches and cooled my blistering hand in the water, mumbling blasphemies as my pulse returned to normal. The stinging subsided quickly and I went in search of Christine. She was sitting in the kitchen, dazed. When I crouched before her, I saw that she was studying her palm, marred by an angry red stripe.

"I never imagined the handle would get hot," she burbled. I wet my handkerchief and laid it gently on her palm to cool it. It seemed she was about to regain control of herself, when something set her off sobbing again.

"I'm a horrible wife! I can't even prepare tea!"

AH. I held and petted her until she settled, and then I tried to reassure her that of course she'd never had occasion to learn to cook, living at the Opera. No matter, she insisted that a wife must be able to prepare the food.

"Darling, you're different than other wives, you're a diva, remember. You've got your music. There's no reason—"

"I'm going to Maman Giry straightaway and learn how to cook!" she cried. As usual since Christine had re-entered my life, the conversation had dashed away from me like so many infant rats. Clearly, my attempts to calm Christine's fears were having precisely the opposite effect. I took refuge in silence as I tried to imagine what a female would consider the correct response to the situation. In a blessed flash of insight, I developed a working theory that there must besomething like"Christine's Rules for Married Women". Obviously, part of the canon involved Preparing Meals for the Husband, no matter if he's fed himself since before the wife was born. I decided to keep a surreptitious notebook of the discoveries I made about this unwritten code.Fired with the spirit of scientific inquiry, I decided to test my theory.

"That's a fine idea, Love. I'll just pitch in and do the best I can with it until you can get on your feet," I offered hopefully.

I was rewarded with a bright smile and exuberant hug, "Oh, Erik, you are the dearest husband ever!"

And that, as they say, was the end of that. The rest of the day passed peacefully. My blistered hand precluded playing, so I had to rehearse Christine unaccompanied. A slight cloud appeared on the horizon around supper when her thoughts returned briefly to the earlier debacle, so I opted for simple fare.

I was about to clear up when Christine leapt to her feet and scowled at no one in particular.

"_I'll_ see to washing up," she intoned imperiously. Ah-hah. Another Rule: Wives do the Washing Up. I sat and sipped my wine as I was no doubt expected to do.

"Erik," Christine opened, "You _are_ going to begin the renovations soon, aren't you?" She permitted no time for a response. "I should think at least another bath and two more bedrooms to start, I can convert your room into my work room."

"Work room?" I was exhausted just thinking about this little project—_which_ _had never been mentioned before_, I am absolutely certain. How had it become a foregone conclusion?

"Of course, I'll need a room for my sewing. It would be ever so helpful if I didn't have to use the dining table…"

I suspect I looked like a dog with a devilish case of ear mites; I shook my head, hoping it would enable what I'd just heard to sink in _and_ make sense.

"Christine…do you know _how_ to sew?" I ventured.

"No, but I'll have to mend your shirts and darn stockings for a start, and make clothing for the babies someday. Maman will show me." Babies? This all seemed perfectly logical and self-evident to Christine. I resorted to what was becoming my new stand-by:

"Oh."

When Christine sauntered off to the bath, I pondered this sea change. It was as if some switch had been thrown when the marriage was consummated. I was not even certain it was an agreeable change. I liked my life as it was; I simply wanted to slip Christine's delectable form into the existing routine. And not Wife Christine, either: Biddable, Beddable Christine.

In bed, she came happily into my arms.

"You needn't tie me tonight," she purred, "I won't run away."

"The restraints are not there to keep you from running away, dear, but because you're simply delightful when you struggle against them," I confessed. _Why_?

"Well, I don't want to struggle anymore. I want to hold you."

"Another day, perhaps."

"Erik, today!"

"Don't whine, darling," I reminded her.

"I don't want to, then," she pouted.

"Are you refusing me, Christine? Is that what you mean to say?" I asked, meaningfully.

I watched the thoughts play across her face. Her brow crinkled in irritation, her eyes fluttered when a new idea presented itself. Finally she bit her lip; I knew I had her.

"No," she breathed, barely audible.

"No?" I repeated.

"No, I am not refusing you," she sighed.

"There's my good girl," I smiled. In addition to Christine's devotion to the teachings of the Church, she wanted desperately to please me, for some reason I couldn't understand. If only she realized how utterly I am in her thrall.

I was fairly certain that I would not actually undertake the construction project that Christine had assigned me, but I wandered around the next day taking notes and making several sketches, as best as my blistered palm would allow.

I had a snippet of a new melody playing in my mind that needed to be explored, so I made short work of the sketches and made for the piano. Christine had gone out so I was able to be undisturbed for several hours. Suddenly I understood that this would be the first opera I created for my Christine: a work of love, a wedding gift, albeit belated. It had to be _Helen of Troy_.

I was so engrossed that I never heard Christine return home.

"Erik. Erik, supper."

"Oh…I'm not hungry, actually, darling, I'm working."

"But I made it myself."

"Hm? I'm sorry, Christine, did you say something?"

"I said I made supper myself."

"Right, excellent, I'll eat later."

Now, the muse is a capricious mistress. When she comes, she expects my undivided attention, and I give it joyfully. I can go for days without food or sleep; I do not suffer, I'm transported. I worked as long as I could on _Helen_, and then I toddled off to bed.

A couple of hours rest put me to rights. Creative juices bubbling gaily, I had a bath and began to think about food and Christine's thighs. I caught up to her pouring tea. I slipped my arms around her and kissed her tantalizing neck.

"I'll have some supper now."

The creature had looked like Christine, felt and smelled like Christine, but when she whirled on me, it was not my Christine.

"Supper, now! It's gone, Erik! Ruined! That was two days ago! I worked all day cooking for you—_all day_!—and it was as if I wasn't even here! I could've drowned in the lake and you'd never have known!" Her eyes looked fit to shoot lightning bolts.

I was nonplussed.

"Christine…I was working. I do lose track of the time, sometimes…but I'm back now," I smiled, reaching for her.

"Oh no you _don't_!" She thumped me on the chest with both her angry little fists.

As I tried to catch my breath, I reflected that clearly I'd misapprehended the situation. Again. It is helpful at these times to proceed from the assumption that my position, however reasonable it may seem to me, is entirely without merit.

"You can't treat me like a little toy you leave in the closet until you're bored and want to play!"

Before I could even begin to admit my error, she rushed past me in a torrent of tears, locking me out of the bedroom.

Something else men must know: Always pursue, even if she says "Go away!"

I knocked on the door.

"Go away, you beast!"

"Christine, I'm sorry. I've got an incredible idea for an opera for you. Did you hear? I'm writing it for you, darling, and I admit I was swept away, but I can only plead my love for you as an explanation. I know that I must find a new way of doing things, darling. I told you, I'm a bit stuck in my old solitary ways."

"Yes, you are!" she sniffled. "You're dreadful!"

"I am. Selfish and inconsiderate."

"Yes."

"Forgive me?"

"…Alright."

"May I come in?"

"No."

"No?"

"I'm not ready to forgive you _that_ much yet. Tomorrow."

"Oh."

Strawberries and cream for breakfast and flowers successfully concluded my penance. After rehearsal, Christine went to visit the Girys again, so I could safely return to _Helen_. I put the work down immediately upon Christine's return and was suitably effusive over supper. Thereafter we passed a delightful fortnight.

We settled into a routine of rehearsal in the morning, errands or visiting for her and work for me in the afternoons. After supper we would read together, or she would ask me for a story of my life before I came to the Opera House. Sometimes we went above after dark and simply walked arm in arm. Paris is beautiful at night. Whenever we would pass another strolling couple, my eyes would begin to tingle. Christine and I were just like them; we shared what they shared. I had a life! Still, it was a shadow only glimpsed out of the corner of my eye. I remained afraid of examining it directly in case it turned out to be an illusion.

Then we would return to home and bed. Making love with Christine was my benediction. The way she sought out my eyes in the darkness; her breath on my monstrous cheek; my name like a prayer on her lips: I've locked it all away in my heart. No one can ever take those moments from me, no matter what may happen.

I wonder how many men curl up to sleep with their woman in their arms and never truly recognize what a treasure they hold. The comfort of another body against your own; someone warm, childlike and trusting in sleep; her sighs, her breath on your skin; cherish her!

One day, Christine went and fetched the feeble-minded Meg down to our home again. It is a testament to my extraordinary powers of concentration that I was able to continue working with the feminine cacophony those two set up. After a time, it turned eerily quiet; I still heard shrieks and giggles, but they were strangely muted. Something warned me to investigate.

I followed the noise to _my room_. Ducking my head in the door, I saw them tearing down my bunting and _Dies Iriae_s and chucking all of it into my coffin. They would team up and scoot the coffin across the floor to keep it close to the area they were currently destroying.

"Christine…" I moved into the room, incredulous, "What is this?"

"Meg's helping me clear all this stuff out. You'll have to dispose of it, I don't think we can carry it."

"'All this stuff' is _my_ stuff," I reminded her.

"Oh, but the new rooms will be ready soon, won't they," she chirped, waving her hand dismissively, "And I've ordered just the handsomest bed—" Meg could not resist giggling inanely at that. Christine blushed slightly and lowered her voice to a whisper.

"The handsomest bed, chest of drawers, wardrobe, dressing table—you'll adore it, Erik, I know you will. Anyway, it's time all this gloomy stuff was gone."

"The new rooms will not be ready soon, Christine."

"Oh?" she was still smiling.

"I have not begun. I don't really think we need any more living space than we currently have."

"Erik…" Christine sighed, baffled. "Why not?" Hands on hips. Shrewishly unattractive.

"I prefer not to discuss it just now, darling." Meg tried to make herself as invisible as possible. To her, I am obviously still the Phantom of the Opera, especially when I'm irritable. _Good_.

"Erik, we need more room!" Christine insisted.

"Later, dear," I smiled tightly. I crooked a finger, beckoning to her. She came closer, looking hurt.

"And Christine, do you think you should _ask_ before dismantling my private things? I do."

"It looks like an undertaker's, Erik! It's a coffin!" she protested.

Perhaps it was that ridiculous Meg in my bedroom; perhaps it was the constant upheaval in my life since Christine came along; perhaps it was the way Christine defied me in Meg's presence. I don't know what it was, honestly, but I was no longer fuming: I was livid.

"It is _my_ coffin, Christine!" I thundered,"Leave it alone!"

I made my escape then. I was too blind with rage to stay. When I returned, early in the morning, my room was almost perfectly restored. Exhausted, I lay down in my coffin fell asleep quickly.

Christine prepared breakfast in silence. I sipped coffee and watched her shift it around her plate uneaten.

"Christine, I don't want it to be like this…" I opened sadly.

She set her fork down and stared at her plate.

"I don't mind clearing out my room. I don't mind new bedroom furniture. But you don't make your plans with Meg, and let me find out about it as it happens."

She was crying. I crouched before her, took her hand and kissed it. She sniffled and burrowed against me.

"I love you," I sang.

We made it up and spent the morning loving. She dozed peacefully, but I could not…I was troubled. I didn't know how to tell Christine that I was unwilling to construct rooms for children I didn't want and did not intend to have. As terrified as I was of making monsters like me, I was more terrified of being forced to share Christine's love. My mind ran from it. I had been alone too long; I'd only just found someone to love me against all odds.

I'd been resorting to onanism for awhile. It was depressing and unpleasant, but Christine seemed to have taken little notice. In my travels, I'd learned of several reliable abortifacients, but I preferred to spare Christine that, except as a last resort. Finally, I concluded that the safest course of action was to do the building project…let Christine believe what she would. It was lying; I was under no illusions about it. I huddled close and let my tears fall on Christine's silken shoulder.


	4. Chapter 4

I began to feel my age for the first time. The injustice of it: in twenty years I'll be buried, and she'll still be fatally beautiful. I am not a gracious husband who wants to see her loved and cared for when I'm gone. I want every man in Paris to perish with me. But I see that I digress in my madness; I was explaining that I worked as I hadn't in 20 years; what a queer thing love is. Sometimes I spent the entire day on _Helen_; more often I would wake early and work a few hours on the music, then do masonry until my aging carcass gave out, and back to _Helen_. My banging and clanging coincided with the reconstruction of the Opera House, fortunately. 'Upstairs' was progressing nicely, and I fancied that I could complete _Helen_ in time for the gala reopening if I drove myself sufficiently.

The man who might have accomplished that was likely 20 years younger, and definitely unmarried. If given the opportunity to confront my divine Maker, once He explains _my face_, I intend to ask why women were created if men are genuinely expected to be productive at anything.

"You're not going back to work this evening, are you, Erik? I thought we might take a walk."

"You want the house finished, don't you, darling? I must work on the opera when I can…"

"You fell asleep on me last night."

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize."

"Hm. Well, you did. Am I getting fat?"

"You are not getting fat."

"Am I getting skinny?"

"Christine, you are perfect. Your husband is an old man, he gets tired when he works hard."

"You're not old."

"Forgive me, dear, but I am. Frightfully so."

"You are not, and I don't want to talk about it anymore."

Oh.

"I want to talk about the fact that we're not even married a year, and you touch the piano more than you do me."

I put away the score and spent the evening with Christine. That was three hours frittered away, but I admit the additional sleep was helpful. Next day, I went up to find a sparkly new bauble to buy me some grace. That was two hours. So, a total of five unproductive hours in twenty four, because I was doing what she wanted me to do in the first place.

In the midst of this domestic bliss, Christine rushed in, announcing breathlessly that the new bedroom furniture was completed and we had to go get it now now now!

"So, Erik, you must clear all your stuff out of that room right away, and, Erik?" She was biting her finger childishly, which means, You are not going to like what I have to say, but if you scold me I shall definitely cry, you ogre.

I raised my eyebrow and waited.

"Could you please smooth the walls out so they're not so lumpy? I want to hang paper on the bedroom walls." She bounced with delight. "Oh, it's going to be so beautiful!"

I was quite speechless for a moment. "Christine…could it have escaped your notice that we live in a _cave_? I cannot smooth the rock walls of a cave."

"Yes you can," she squeezed my arm. "Can't you just put some of that…mud on it, and smooth it out, and it will dry and—"

I sat down, hard. I was dirty, smelly, hot, exhausted and dangerously low on morphine. I no longer recognized myself or my life. _How have you come to this?_ I shook my head. Opened my eyes. _Ah, yes. There is how. _She looked so…disappointed. How can I disappoint her?

"Darling, those lumps add architectural interest…I could paint for you. Would you like the seashore? A garden?"

"A garden? Could you paint me a Persian garden?"

"I could." More squeals and bounces. Crisis averted; as if painting a mural on cave walls is the simplest thing I would ever undertake.

I don't know how I successfully waded through the morass of painting the mural _and_ fetching the furniture _instantly_. The wifely priorities were established according to some arcane formula, and I complied, to the best of my limited capabilities.

Christine was absurdly happy while all this was going on; blissfully unconcerned whether I expired from paint fumes or simple exhaustion. She was also maddeningly affectionate. It was during this time that I perfected the Surely You Jest, Woman! Stare. I came to believe that there is an inverse relationship between feminine arousal and male fatigue.

So: my 'stuff' was duly removed, relegated to a little-used corridor until renovations were complete. The wall was painted and pronounced lovely and perfect. I ventured into the light for the furniture. It was lovely, elegant. Massive. Mahogany.

Christine has no sense of spatial relationships whatsoever. I hesitate to say 'women', because the only other woman who had seen the furniture and knew where it had to go was that ninny Meg. So, possibly, there exists another female who would have been able to forsee that I would be driven to unparalleled blasphemies by this endeavor, but she was not my wife.

The daroga was duly conscripted. Between the sweating, straining, and blaspheming, he grinned at me inanely. When it was finally accomplished, I turned to the grinning wretch and demanded "_What?_" He assured me that I was a changed man, and an exemplary husband. I told him to go to the devil, and offered to hasten the meeting.

We drank, he grinned and I scowled while Christine raced off to fetch the ninny. In my ignorance, I thought we were finished. All the backbreaking wood was in the room. Ah, but now the ladies would make complex decisions as to the precise _placement_ of the backbreaking wood.

"You should have known better, Erik. One doesn't just plop scenery willy-nilly," my Persian friend chided. I invited him to perform an obscene act that I recalled from my sideshow days.

"A little that way." Blink blink.

"A little the other way…a little more…there." Blink blink.

"I think it needs to go back the other way again…"—that would be the ninny, with whom I refused to speak.

"Christine…that is precisely where it was before—"

"Ssshhhh!"—that would be the daroga.

When he departed, he slipped me a packet of the most heavenly morphine I have ever enjoyed. I kissed him and blessed him, and promised to remember him in my prayers.

And that is the saga of the bedroom furniture. I refuse to dwell on it any further.

I was not permitted to sleep in the bed that had murdered me that night, or for several nights thereafter. It was to be properly 'christened'—her word, not mine—and we were going to make a big celebration of it. I had to recover first.

Oh.

During the next few days, I noticed that there was a distressing amount of blinking going on. Blinking always signals trouble of some kind. If one is fortunate, it may be a minor inconvenience; such as, I would like to go shopping again. I know I have just been, but I have thought of something _absolutely necessary_. If one is unfortunate, it may be a catastrophe of biblical proportions; such as, The furniture is upstairs and we must go get it now now now! It goes without saying that as I was still not walking properly, I was concerned about this, especially since there was a great deal of stewing associated with this blinking. The normal pattern was: blink blink, followed immediately by "Erik…" and out it came.

Supper one night found me beyond 'concerned', and well into 'irritated' by this mysterious blinking. I assumed my mildest tone of voice.

"Darling, is something troubling you?"

"No." Much too quickly.

I inclined my head and tried to smile indulgently. How does a gargoyle smile indulgently?

"No?"

Blink blink.

"Meg says she's never been tied up." Blink blink blink blink, blush, wriggle.

I knew that ninny was a slut; her poor, long-suffering mother.

"Ahem, Christine…dear, I beg you, put my mind at ease and swear to me that you've not been discussing—"

"I didn't! I mean, it was an accident. We were looking at the bed, in the shop, and Meg pointed out another one she liked as well, and I said, But where would you put the restraints on that one? And she didn't know what I was talking about."

"Oh."

Blessed silence prevailed for a moment.

"Christine, I am not convinced that Meg is the sort of…young woman that I would describe as fitting company for my wife."

She accused. "You told me it had to be like that. The first time, you said it had to be--"

I weaseled. "Now, Christine, I never said it had to be like that for everyone. I merely meant to say that it had to be like that for me—us."

"Because you say I look delightful…but I can look delightful…not…all tied up!"

"Of course you can, but--"

"I don't want to do that anymore!" She cried and began to run off. I caught her arm, panicked at the thought of her leaving me and my bizarre practices forever.

"Alright," I breathed reluctantly. She wept with relief as my stomach churned.

I resorted to my preferred defense: I avoided Christine for as long as possible. I considered sitting her down for a serious scientific discussion, explaining the delicate male physiology. I considered a serious scientific discussion explaining the…specialized requirements of certain discriminating gentlemen, and the relationship between these requirements and the delicate male physiology. I could not: I could not breathe it, I could not think it. I could think of only one thing: what if I didn't…or couldn't…

One day, I was composing when Christine brought some cheese, fruit and wine over for tea.

"Thank you, dear."

It was useless to insist that I was not hungry when I was working. She would not be denied when she resolved to press food on me.

"Erik," she was performing some wifely adjustments to my shirt, "I thought we might have our christening celebration this evening," she rubbed my shoulders, working tight, tired muscles, "…if you like."

My bones dissolved under her busy little fingers. I would have agreed to anything, and I did.

"Yes, alright. Mmm. Sleepy," I admitted.

"Why don't you have a nap?" she whispered, kissing my ear.

I tried to rouse myself. "No, too much to do."

"Erik works so hard," she crooned. "It won't hurt him to rest for one day." She drew me to my feet and to the new bed.

"But the christening," I protested weakly. She had my shoes and shirt off quickly.

"Ssshhh, it's alright. Get on your stomach and I'll rub your back a bit more."

When I awoke, Christine was snuggling on my chest. She looked up and smiled, stroked my cheek.

"You needed that rest, you slept for hours." She kissed my chest.

"Mmm."

"Would you like supper?"

"No, thank you."

"Nothing?"

"Mmm, I wouldn't say nothing…" I reached to pull her into my arms, but couldn't. My arms—

Christine moved to the edge of the bed.

"Now you're awake, I'll snug these up a bit." She gave a tug—my wrist! I stared dumbly as she moved quickly to my ankle…and then the other ankle…and the final wrist. I don't know why I couldn't react. No, I know why: I trusted her.

"Christine, don't…" I tugged vainly. "I don't like this," I warned.

She lifted her skirts above her knees and sat astride my hips.

"I hope I tied them correctly. Are you comfortable?" she asked, perfectly sweetly, mocking me.

"Christine, untie me this minute," I commanded. My pulse raced. I strained against the lassos, already scraping the flesh raw. "It's not funny, Christine! Now!"

"Give it a fair trial, Erik," she giggled.

"NO! DON'T LAUGH AT ME!" I roar.

I cannot see; black and red. Black and red, black and red. Choking; I'm caged again. My heart flutters in my chest, my heart is trapped, too. I cannot catch my breath. Drowning? Smothering? I cannot see them, but they are all around. I hear their screams, their shrieks. They point and poke, throw things. They pinch and kick. They're laughing, my struggling amuses them. Lie still, lie still and they won't laugh anymore. But I have to get away.

"GET AWAY! DON'T TOUCH ME!"

I bolted from my coffin, a madman's screams echoing through the cavern. Cold: shirtless and barefoot, I began to shiver. As my head cleared, I realized the screams had been my own. My head pounded, my body ached, my throat was parched and sore. As I tried to move, my wrists and ankles, stiff, swollen, shot needles of pain up my limbs. I started to remember; pushing it away, I limped home.

I did not see Christine as I moved from room to room. Perhaps she's gone, I thought. Good. But still, some part of me sought her. I wonder what would have happened had I gone directly to her room. Instead I took the rooms in order, as I came to them.

I forced my reluctant body into that bedroom, our bedroom. Her bed, my torture rack: rope; rumpled, bloodstained linens. I could not repossess my trembling limbs. I heaved the chest of drawers to the floor; upset Christine's dressing table easily. Drawers splitting and cracking, shards of glass slicing my feet.

"Erik…" her tiny voice thru the maelstrom. Haunted, frightened in the doorway; pleading eyes. Go to her: comfort her.

"No," I shook my head, "go away, Christine. I'm not your husband."

"Erik, don't—" a tremulous gasp; even in agony, her voice is divine.

"Go away. I cannot be your husband."

I pushed past her. Whatever she said, I could not hear; I was beyond her reach. I did not see when she left.

I burned the bedroom. Wood, cloth, rope; bubbling paint, one of my priceless rugs, all of it. When it was done, I kicked the charred remains to the perimeter and dragged my coffin back in among the rubble.

I returned to music, but not to _Helen_. I would score Dante's Inferno: who else could bring the voice of hell to the world? Though she was dead to me, I could not burn _Helen_. I secured the score and all my notes with a ribbon and placed the bundle on the dressing table in Christine's room. It was the only proof that once, I'd defied Heaven and been happy. That, and the thin gold band that Christine had insisted I wear. Now, it pained me to wear it; I tried daily to remove it, but I couldn't.

My wrists and ankles refused to heal completely. With each movement, they would split and bleed. Had it occurred to me, I might have doused them in wine to keep infection under control, but it didn't matter. I was not even interested enough to work up any self-loathing.

Dante frustrated me at every turn. The music would not come, no matter what I did. We were titans locked in mortal combat. Rage was my meat and bread.

I don't know how much time passed; weeks, I'm sure. One day as I pummeled the piano in frustration, I sensed another presence. Adele Giry regarded me calmly. I covered my face, turning away. I had not bothered with the mask for so long.

"Don't trouble yourself," she offered, averting her eyes in deference to my shame, but I had just laid my hands on a mask. I moved into the library; not that I thought she would not follow. I threw myself on the sofa, filthy, unkempt, and defiant.

Adele was unimpressed.

"Before you tell me to go away, tell me what I should do with this girl." She settled opposite me in a wing chair.

"She is no longer a concern of mine."

"Oh, no?" Adele surveyed my appearance pointedly. Something flickered when she spied my wrists, but her placid expression returned so quickly that I might have imagined it. "Then be a man and have the decency to free her."

"She is free," I shrugged. "Anyway, how shall I be a man?" I spat.

Now Adele shrugged.

"I see someone working very hard to convince himself he is not a man. Of course, a man cannot run and hide as a beast can."

"You don't speak to me that way, woman!" I hissed. My face was inches from hers; I loomed above her.

"Christine cannot pretend it did not happen. It was a real wedding, in a church, with a priest," Adele replied, unflinching. "You must seek an annulment."

My guts churned. My heart felt caught in a vise. I would not cry…I would not. I tore at my wrist surreptitiously; the pain drove the tears away. I fell back onto the sofa.

"How?" I sighed.

Adele raised an eyebrow, considering.

"There are no children, it should be a fairly simple matter. It takes time, though. Speak with the priest."

A fairly simple matter. My final, tenuous link with humanity, severed like a diseased limb. I nodded.

"You will see the priest, then?" Adele asked softly, after a pause.

"Yes," I replied numbly, "tell her I will do whatever she wants."

"I did not say it is what she wants," Adele replied sharply. "Christine did not ask me to come. She would be horrified if she knew I was here." Adele looked exasperated.

"She looks as bad as you," she blurted out, disgusted. "She will not speak of you at all. No one can help her. No. _I _came here. Someone must do something!" I had never seen Adele in such a state, I didn't know what to think.

"What does she want?" I ventured.

"What does she want!" Adele stamped her foot. She raised her eyes to heaven, hands open in a silent plea.

"Idiot!" In a swish of taffeta, she breezed from the room. I rushed after her and just caught her sleeve. She turned maternal eyes on me.

"At least Christine has an excuse when she acts like a child: she _is_ a child. But you, Erik," she patted my cheek, then pinched it. "It is time _you_ grew up." Then she walked away.

"Adele! What shall I do?"

She neither spoke nor turned, just waved her hand back at me. Bye-bye, Erik. _Women_!

"Adele!" I shouted down the corridor. "What the hell does that mean?"

The daroga's smile evaporated when he beheld my gaunt face. My eyes warned him to let it be.

"Morphine."

"I am glad to see you too, old friend," he replied. "Please, sit. Will you eat?"

"No. Thank you."

He turned to prepare us drinks. The Persian will force his hospitality upon you.

"You lovely bride is well, I trust?"

"Fine, yes. The morphine?"

"Yes, Erik, don't fret. Tch tch tch, what has become of your manners?"

I reached to accept the sherry from him, and he spied my wrist. He caught my arm and glared at the still-angry wound. I stared him down when his eyes asked for an explanation. Sighing, the daroga moved wordlessly to his opium chest. "One? Two?" he asked blandly.

"Two," I replied with relief.

He dropped the paper packets into my palm.

"I remain your friend, Erik," he reminded me.

I softened. "I couldn't tell you if I wanted to…which I don't," I hastened to add. "But even if I did, I couldn't," I grumbled, blushing.

"Now you sound like a married man again," he laughed, patting my shoulder.

"But I'm not," I wailed, feeling the floodgates burst. We must have made quite a sight, the little dark man comforting the sobbing giant.

When I collapsed on the sofa, drained, my head was pounding. I placed the cool glass against my forehead. The daroga popped some ice into his handkerchief. "Here."

"Oh, God," I groaned. My hand trembled as I fumbled with a morphine packet.

"Wait, wait." He shook some powder onto my tongue. As the waves of relaxation flowed over me, I popped an eye open.

"Will you tuck me in as well?"

"Certainly, but I suspect you can do better for yourself."

I snorted. "You think so!"

"All couples quarrel, you know. 'The course of true love…'"

"Please," I grimaced. "I'm too old for this…"

"You can come here, then. We'll be old curmudgeons together. You're much better at it than I, anyway," he replied brightly.

"I'm not a normal man, daroga," I admitted, shrugging. "Maybe I'm too damaged inside."

"I think she knows you are not a normal man, my friend. Why do you refuse to recognize all of your wonderful qualities?"

"My wonderful qualities don't hurt people," I reminded him.

"What do you want to do?" my friend asked, after several minutes.

"Madame Giry says I should see a priest for an annulment."

"Mm. What does Christine say?"

"I don't know," I confessed.

"And Erik?"

"I don't know."

"I think you do. Maybe it is best that you separate," he sighed breezily.

I stared at him aghast.

"But, ah, you no longer make such decisions alone, Erik, my friend. It is a tough old habit to break."

I nodded; he nodded.

"Wait," he rushed from the room and returned with a pot of ointment and wound dressing. He pressed this into my hands without comment.

"Daroga, I'm afraid."

"I know."


	5. Chapter 5

I briefly considered taking several days to eat and sleep properly before going to see Christine. I determined the rate of courage leakage to be too great to afford the luxury, so I settled for scrubbing the grime off and donning relatively clean clothes. I had missed my first wedding anniversary; it was spent in a narcotic haze, but I had the gift. On that first memorable shopping trip, Christine had admired a delicate double strand of pearls. I became immediately convinced that Christine's graceful neck was divinely sculpted to wear those pearls, so on my next raid I did the purchase. Ouch; but that is another story.

Clean me; clean clothes; wrists dressed; gift; morphine-smoothed edges; mask. Ready—no.

When I glimpsed that whore, Meg, as she slipped from the room with her mother, I realized that she was no longer merely annoying. I was all but seizing with rage at the mere sight of her. It was no mean feat to wrestle it down and attend to the little waif twisting her handkerchief into knots, the little waif I'd come to see. The instant I opened my mouth, I discovered that suave, articulate Erik had deserted me. I give you me, at my finest:

"I, ah, missed our anniversary…I'm sorry. Here…for you." Quelle cretin.

"They're beautiful," she squeaked and sobbed, immediately developing hiccoughs.

I moved behind her to fasten the clasp.

"Christine, you smell so lovely," I gasped.

She hiccoughed and sobbed even harder. Nightmare? High Comedy? Low Comedy? You decide.

"Perfect, beautiful. Go look," I indicated the mirror.

Her curls bobbed in denial. "I'm not beau-_hic_-tiful."

I felt useless. "You're always beautiful," I grumbled. I longed to run.

We sat like tomcats on opposing loveseats.

"So…you would probably like to be free to get on with your life…"

She almost blurted something out, but thought better of it.

"Whatever you want," she breathed.

"No, not what _I_ want, what _you _want." I crouched before her, suddenly animated. "You don't want to live forever like this, do you?"

I could no longer see her face; she was staring at her hands in her lap. Again her curls bobbed, No.

"No, of course not, Little One," I soothed. "An annulment is simple, it would be as if it never happened." I actually said this.

Christine looked so helpless, so bereft. A wellspring of tenderness bubbled up inside me. I reached out, just to touch one perfect ringlet of her hair…but shrunk from it at the last moment. Touching would not help me to give her up.

"I just want you not to have to cry over me anymore. Look, even now there are tears staining your lovely dress. What would you like, Christine?" I asked, resigned.

She breathed something in such a tiny voice that I could not hear. I shook my head.

"Christine, I didn't hear…" I leaned closer, offered her my ear.

"I said, I would like to come home!" she repeated. "You told me to go away," she reminded me between sobs. She pressed her forehead to my shoulder and leaked all over my shirt. "You said you weren't my husband."

I felt life and humanity seep into me through the little patch of sunshine where Christine rested against me. How do I live without her? I thought. The answer: I don't. But in just a few months, Christine had given me so much more than I'd ever dared dream. Her life, such a tender, fragile shoot, is so much more precious to me than my warped existence. Once again I was standing in the lake, kissing her farewell, sending her back to the light.

I sat back on my haunches. "I want to be your husband more than anything, Angel, but I'm not sure I can be."

Immediately, Christine wanted to protest.

"Wait, Christine, let me have my say, please?"

She sat back with difficulty and bit her lip.

"I'm not like other men, Christine, you know that. My life…sometimes, when something is broken—an instrument, a machine—sometimes it can be repaired, and afterwards you would never know it had been broken, it is good as new. Sometimes, though, a thing is broken in such a way that no matter how skillfully, how lovingly it is repaired, it is never the same again. It never really functions correctly, and sometimes you can't even predict…how the damage will reveal itself, or when."

She would not hear anymore. "No, you're not broken, Erik!" Now she cried angry tears.

"Christine, you cannot conceive of it, and god help me, you never shall, but I am so very broken. I don't want to be, and I try…every day, to be like everyone else. I know it was hard for you when your father died, but you did know love as a child. You were cared for and wanted. Christine, no one ever loved me. No one! My mother…imagine always knowing that no one will ever love you. How can anyone know what that does to a soul? Even _I _don't know!"

"_I _love you! I love you now!" Christine insisted, as if I was stubbornly missing the point.

"And I can't make all the…stuff…inside me just disappear now. I thought I could, I dreamed that you would save me," I admitted. "It isn't your fault, my love."

"You're not all bad! It isn't just bad stuff inside you," she reminded me.

"No, of course not," I smiled gratefully. "But…you deserve more."

"You don't even care a little what I want," Christine said sadly.

"I _do _care what you want."

"Then why won't you let me come home?"

"Because I don't want you to make a mistake, Christine. You have your whole life—"

"Stop it, stop it!" She leapt up, knocking me off my feet. She stomped across the room and whirled around to launch a broadside at me. She had lightning bolts in her eyes again, and she clutched her skirts white-knuckled.

"When will everyone stop telling me how young I am? I'm not a baby! I'm entitled to my own choices, and even my own mistakes! You can't all protect me forever. And you're the worst of all, you---Phantom!" She pointed a furious, quivering finger at me. "I'm not some precious…saint! You think I came back to you out of pity? You think I _married_ you out of pity? I'm just a normal, vain, selfish girl, Erik! I came back to you because I wanted you, you big…stupid head!"

Her blushing decolletage rose and fell invitingly with the effort of the salvo she'd just delivered. Hell hath no fury…

"I have been called many things, Christine, but… 'Big Stupid head" cuts me to the quick," I replied solemnly.

"It's not funny!"

She launched herself at me with a banshee howl and might have done me real damage except for the physical boost I'd realized from the renovation efforts. I managed to subdue her by hoisting her aloft with her arms pinned slightly behind her. She continued to glare at me, but I knew I had her when her kicking subsided, and I felt her little feet swinging merrily.

"If you must beat your husband, Madame, at least have the decency to do so in the privacy of your own home.'

"Take me home so I can beat you then. You're an evil man, I don't know why I ever let you kiss me."

"Hmm. As I recall, it was you who kissed me."

"_That_ is nonsense; put me down. You make me sound like a tart." She twirled away and strolled off primly, casting a nonchalant glance over her shoulder to make certain I was following as expected. I love her in this mood.

"_Eh bien_; I love tarts." I tugged on the big bow of her sash. She flicked her handkerchief at me in a beautifully executed pirouette.

"Hmph, I've no doubt of that."

"What particular flavor of tart would you happen to be?"

She whirled around, mouth agape, eyes wide. She was pleasantly scandalized, as I had hoped.

"Erik! Ssshhh! If someone hears…" she giggled and insinuated herself snugly into my arms. My lips on her forehead; she purred.

"You've decided, then," I murmured.

She nodded. "No going back now."

When Christine saw what had become of her beautiful bedroom, she plopped into my coffin and wept. I could not get to my morphine with her sitting right there… though I needed to. I wanted desperately to tell her that we could put it all back the way it was, but my throat closed whenever I thought about that bed. I couldn't face it, ever, I was sure of it. She wanted to clean up the charred remains immediately, and I had to plead with her to leave it. I couldn't explain it to her, because I didn't understand it myself, and thankfully she realized that.

It was a quiet day. We took comfort in simply being together, and ended the day on a bench, stargazing until late into the night.

"Erik?" She was curled up so quietly on my chest, I thought she'd fallen asleep.

"Mm."

"What happened?" She sounded afraid of angering me. I sighed; I had no confidence in my ability to discuss it calmly.

"When I was young I used to be tied up and caged," I replied tightly.

After a moment, Christine realized that I was not going to say anything more.

"So you were frightened," she said softly.

"No, I was terrified." Already my pulse was racing and my breath was coming fast. I wanted to run; I started jiggling my foot.

Christine stroked my brow and kissed me. I went along because I understood she was trying to comfort me, but my heart was not in it. I didn't know how to tell her that I did not want any touching just then. She trapped my face between her hands, kissing me fiercely as she slid her knee between my thighs and rolled up onto my hip. I locked my arms firmly at my sides--I was afraid of throwing her from the bed--and tore my mouth free.

"No, stop!" I struggled for breath. Instantly she was away from me, as if she'd been burned. Still she insisted on comforting me.

"It's alright…Erik…" Her fingers barely brushed my arm.

"Don't, Christine, I can't!" I swung away and sat on the edge of the bed, ready to fly. Sitting up made me feel instantly better, and I was able to settle relatively quickly so long as she left me alone.

I couldn't lie back down; my gorge rose just thinking of it.

"I think I'll go read awhile," I sighed shakily.

"Alright," she whispered.

Happily ever after at Christine and Erik's.

We fumbled toward our new version of wedded bliss gradually. We resumed our rehearsal-work-read-story-outside rhythm. I continued uncomplaining with the construction of the new rooms, useless though it was now. We never spoke of it, but we both sensed that to halt the project was to admit to some sort of irreparable rupture in our marriage. The Opera House was finally under roof, so I made regular raids to gauge the most propitious time for the Phantom's resurrection.

I abandoned _Dante_ for _Helen_, but as in the bedroom, so at the piano: nothing. I avoided Christine like the skillful Opera Ghost I was, and now she avoided me too. I had managed to frighten her off ever approaching me, even for a harmless cuddle, lest the rabid gargoyle reappear. It was another thing we never spoke of. It was just the look in Christine's eyes as she tried not to be hurt, tried to understand, tried to be a good wife. I slunk through every day knowing that she felt she'd failed me somehow—_she'd_ failed _me_! I should have been the happiest man in the world. Instead, I discovered deeper, darker realms of hell.

I was completely alone in my grief. Obviously I could not turn to Christine or Adele. I could not speak of it with my Persian friend, either. I don't know what he would have said…when I am rational (if you accept that I can ever be so), I can say that he would have been kind and supportive, if not helpful. But I couldn't…so tired of being ashamed, I didn't want to admit of any more failure to anyone. So, it gnawed at me in my isolation. It began creeping, nibbling, until eventually it poisoned every waking moment I shared with my beloved; it tortured me remorselessly when I was alone; and after years of relative peace, the nightmares returned every night. The daroga grew alarmed at my increasing demands for morphine, and watched helplessly as I spiraled into lunacy.

Inevitably, my reality shattered into mirror shards. I imagined Christine's love draining away like sand in an hourglass. My mind raced through lightless caverns, unremitting self-loathing and impotence snapping at my heels. Finally, a pinhole in the velvet blackness far in the distance: an answer, an end to my suffering. Fate had grudgingly bestowed one final droplet of hope on the cracked and bleeding tongue of the madman. If I could make it to the speck of brightness growing larger with each step, and see clearly the face that my agony wore, I would find a solution. I would be a normal man, and Christine would love me again. Closer, closer: I could not see it clearly, but I knew the face was not mine. I heard beautiful voices, no laughter, no mockery, singing softly--as a real mother might have done--telling me that I was not to blame. Finally it floated before me, perfectly clear, glowing and golden as the sun: the face of my shame; the face of Meg Giry.

From the moment I settled on my course of action, I received providential signs that my choice had been the correct one: I felt instantly better. I slept better as the nightmares diminished, and smile, and I only required morphine occasionally to help me stop obsessing over my plans. In an unprecedented burst of manic energy, I completed the rooms and made phenomenal progress on _Helen_. I dropped my managers an effusive note, approving the renovations, mentioning a salary increase, and advising them that I'd have an original work for them soon. In closing, I promised that Christine would be prompt and in excellent voice when rehearsals began for the gala reopening.

My little darling was happier, too. Encouraged by my obvious improvement, she was able to overcome her hesitation about approaching me for a cuddle. She smiled, decorated the new rooms and blessed our home with the music of her laughter again. I didn't feel ready to clean out my coffin room yet, and I was still unable to sleep the night through with her, but I could normally hold her until she fell asleep. And while I wasn't a proper husband to her, I managed to provide her some satisfaction. I assured her that everything would be better than ever soon, that I felt much improved daily, and I meant it sincerely. Soon.


	6. Chapter 6

It is not at all challenging for someone like me to get a fix on the haunts and habits of someone like Meg Giry. Penetrating (pardon the unfortunate pun) that sad little mind afforded me no diversion; I've been more exercised by removing Christine's corset. There was a slight misstep in our pas de deux of death—or so it appeared at the outset, but it all turned out to my advantage in the end. You see, the gods truly have been with me since the inception of this plan to redeem my life from Meg's clutches.

When my research first began, our heroine was being…courted? wooed? ridden? by a youth I rather came to pity. At the time of my appearance on the scene, it was clear that Meg had already set her cap for a more promising victim, so she was bitchy and dissatisfied with everything poor lovesick Gilles tried to do for—or to--her. He seemed a fun-loving suitor who genuinely found Meg pretty and talented (I mean artistically). He was also relatively sober, considering they normally rendezvoused in a tavern. I am glad that I did not have to murder her on Gilles' watch.

The new beau was embarrassingly easy to hate: guess who he immediately brought to mind? Not merely callow, but arrogantly so; over-dressed, over-perfumed, over-sexed, and prettier than Meg—delightful in every way. He had more money; he hired a room for them to fornicate in. Tuesdays and Wednesdays for certain, other days if they could manage it, little Meggie and her Roger played slap-and-tickle in a fairly decent establishment that shared a yard with a livery stable. After all my research was complete, I concluded that the yard was the ideal place for Meg and me to have our little tete a tete.

I took my time. No self-respecting cat rushes after his mouse. I knew where she would be when I wanted her. I had waited until the Opera House was reborn because it afforded me the perfect opportunity to be 'elsewhere' legitimately. I told Christine—truthfully—that the new construction demanded that I fashion a whole new complement of trap-doors, dead-ends, bolt-holes, passageways, shortcuts, and other necessities of the trade. A Phantom does not enter through the front door, after all. I worked on my Opera House renovations and my la Giry research project simultaneously.

Finally, I was ready. Typically, the sweethearts would separate in the alley alongside their love nest after a last minute grope; Meg scuttling off in one direction, the dashing Roger lurching off in another. The Phantom would secrete himself in the shadows of the alley, accosting the fair Meg once her swain had staggered out of range.

"Meg," I whispered, catching her shoulder.

She turned, giggling, "Roger…"

In shadow, I caught her hands in mine and drew her away from the street. When we passed under the light at the entrance to the yard, she gasped and reclaimed her hands. I watched the thoughts struggle through the fog of her wine- and Roger- soaked brain. Phantom, bad, run! No, Christine's husband: friend, sort-of. Her smile was tentative, her eyes ambivalent.

I put on as benign a smile as I could manage and spoke gently.

"Meggie's been a very naughty girl…"

Her eyes sparkled with fear again as she pleaded, "You won't tell Maman, will you?"

"Nooo, no," I crooned, taking the trembling sparrow under an avuncular wing, "I cannot fault you for being a high-spirited girl, can I?" She brightened considerably when she realized that we had an understanding.

"Oh, thank you! Maman doesn't understand. She still treats me like a child," she confided.

"You mustn't be too hard on Maman…"

"Still, I'm glad you don't think I'm a bad girl," she smiled up at me, with a hint of provocation.

"I didn't say that, Meg," I still smiled, but my voice had turned stern.

"But—" confusion dampened her smile.

"I do not care about your…romantic intrigues, Meg. I want to discuss your unwelcome meddling in my marriage; opening Christine's mind to ideas best left unexplored, causing her to question her husband's judgement…"

She started to squirm; I had to grip her arm more firmly.

"I'm not! When did I--"

"Ssshhh, you talk too much, Meg. Trying to undermine my authority with my wife…haven't you heard 'What God has joined, let no man put asunder'? I assure you, that applies equally for women."

Meg struggled fiercely, her brow furrowed with irritation. "I'm not trying to und—"

I struck Meg squarely on her nose; I felt the underlying structure give way before she fell. Her nose and split upper lip poured blood as she coughed and sputtered to catch her breath. Perhaps I loosened teeth as well.

"Didn't I just say you talk too much?" I demanded.

I crouched alongside her. She made wet, whimpering sounds and tried to crawl away, but my hand on her throat saw to that. Captivated, I watched her eyes widen; her irises were rimmed all around with white as she struggled uselessly. I felt a surge of power, addictive as morphine, as Meg slipped from panic into terror under my hand.

The demon stirred, unbidden. Meg seemed to catch the scent of lust in the damp night air. She reached for her skirts to cover her legs as best she could.

"Don't be absurd," I snarled, "I want nothing to do with your poxy gash."

At that moment, I saw Meg's gaze darken with the understanding that she would die. Yet, she could not resist searching my lifeless eyes and pleading wordlessly for her pathetic life, though she knew...

"No," I confirmed.

Meg began to tear and claw at my hand, but her throat was small and easily crushed. It was effortless, almost unsatisfying. As I stood I examined my hands: completely clean; my clothing, spotless. I glanced at the broken girl, just outside the circle of lamplight. The demon made one last suggestion, but I took no notice.

I went directly home, because I am a good husband.

Walking home, I felt buoyed aloft with…I don't know…an incredible feeling of love for all mankind. The weight—not lifted, vanished! The caverns beneath the Opera House rang with the Phantom's laughter.

In an uncharacteristically cavalier and untidy moment, I shucked all my clothing and left it in a wrinkled heap on the floor as I slipped into bed. My Angel murmured and snuggled, running sleepy hands down my back.

"Erik…naked Erik," she sighed happily, trying to wake.

"Sshhh, sleep, Angel." I sang her a lullaby and followed her joyfully into peaceful sleep.

I brushed Christine's tousled curls back from her face and kissed her sweet forehead.

"Good morning," I smiled.

"Mmm, when did you return?"

"I never left."

"You stayed with me all night?" she gazed at me with wonder.

"I did."

"Erik! Erik stayed with Christine all night," she squealed. I rolled onto my back and drew her on top of me. Much playful kissing and giggling ensued.

I was seized by an enchanting idea. My mouth being otherwise engaged, I made my suggestion to Christine by drawing her gown up over her thighs and matchless derriere. She raised herself slightly to help me slide it up to her waist. She purred, expressing appreciation for the demon's effusive greeting. I drew her down for some serious kissing.

Presently, Christine eased away and sat up, straddling my hips most agreeably. Her cheeks were pink and her lips seemed puffy and tender already, and I'd scarcely begun my assault.

"Shall I—" she moved to dismount, but I caught her hips.

"No…stay right…there." A few minor adjustments on my part…a bit of eager cooperation on her part…I slid home to a warm, wet welcome.

"Oh! Ohhh," Christine shuddered; her eyes rolled back as if she was a medium entering a trance. She moved uncannily, instinctively. No girl of the shah's harem could have ridden me more exquisitely. She delighted in lowering herself excruciatingly slowly, making me shudder and moan and beg. I thought I might die, and found myself untroubled, even delighted, at the idea.

Throughout my labyrinth, I have a series of bells and clickers which serve as early warning of curiosity seekers, blunderers, or fatally stupid risk-takers, among others. The practical result is that I can know precisely where the intruder is, his route, his rate of speed; in short, I cannot be snuck up on.

It was at this divinely blissful, long-anticipated, and hard-won moment that I was cruelly distracted by a distinctive tinkling sound.

"Erik!" Christine knows all about the damned bells and clickers, too.

"It's a rat, Christine," I prayed, _please let it be a rat_. "Don't stop."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure, I'm sure…don't stop."

Another minute. Another tinkle. Not a rat. _Merde_.

"Erik, it's not a rat!"

"Wait, just…ignore it," I pleaded.

"I can't," she fussed, slipping away.

"Nooooo, Christiiiine, wait wait..no, no, no…merde MERDE!"

"I'm sorry, Erik, but—"

"Whoever he is, he is dead. DEAD."

I struggled into my damned clothes and stomped off to do murder. The demon was throbbing; his brothers were aching. When my boys suffer, I suffer. Someone else must suffer as well. I had about two minutes to meditate on what the obscene irony of my actually being disturbed at such a transcendent moment when I live in a cave under the Opera House. My hands tingled to contact my victim's throat, just ahead. I ducked aside for him to pass…

"Adele! What the hell—"

She looked a sight, pale as a ghost. "Meg, she is with Christine?" she whispered.

I had forgotten.

"Of course not, Adele, what time is it?"

"She was not in her bed this morning…you're sure she isn't with Christine?"

"Quite," I replied dryly. "I am sure there is a reasonable explanation," I suggested as I brought her down.

Christine was making tea; I told her Meg was missing. We assured Adele at least a dozen times that Meg was not with us, nor had we seen her. As Adele stared into her teacup, I drew Christine aside and suggested that she mention the boyfriend. Her initial reaction was that she did not want to 'get Meg in trouble', but I managed to convince her that given this uncharacteristic disappearance, Maman needed to know. Finally, she relented.

"Maman," Christine took Adele's hand. "There is a boy…"

"A boy? What boy?" Adele was nonplussed.

"Meg meets him sometimes."

"Meets him? What are you saying?"

Christine turned pink, pinker, and blinked a lot.

Adele shook her head. "Who is he? Do you know him?"

"No, I know his name is Roger, that is all."

"Where do they—"

"I don't know anything more. I'm sorry." Christine looked at me, silently hoping she'd done the right thing. I nodded.

"Are you sure?" Adele was struggling against this information.

"Adele, Christine and I had a conversation. From what Christine said Meg said…yes. I'm sure." That seemed to settle it for her, when I said so.

"Do you suppose they eloped? Why wouldn't she tell me?" Adele fretted.

"Maman, let me get dressed and come upstairs with you. I'm sure she is up there right now, looking for breakfast," Christine smiled. "Erik can wait here in case Meg comes down."

"Of course," I nodded. "Or I can look around upstairs if you like."

Christine dressed and they went up. I put my feet up, threw back a bottle of Bordeaux and basked in my victory. I reflected briefly that, even in death, the little bitch managed to insinuate herself between my sheets. Fine, have your bit of fun this final time; I can wait.

After two hours I cruised upstairs to ask after the missing Meg. Christine and Adele's faces told the story: they were hoping I had news. Adele gave a sigh and sent for the police.

Once the police arrived, things proceeded apace. A connection was quickly made between Meg and the young girl found strangled in a back lot off the Rue de Chantereine. Adele and Christine went to make an identification. I had offered to go initially, to spare Adele the trauma. She was deeply moved by my gesture, but refused.

Within days, the police were able to trace the information the innkeeper had provided and located the hapless Roger. He had no motive; likewise no alibi, _et allors_. It was never in doubt that he'd be the one to pay for Meg's murder, and once that was accomplished, the healing could begin. The Opera family closed ranks around Madame Giry in her grief. I tended to Christine in every way I could. She assured me that I was the most wonderful man in the world for such loving care, but it was easy to do; she was suffering, and I want her happiness more than anything. Over time, the glimmer returned to Christine's eyes. I was fantastically happy.


	7. Chapter 7

Helen locks the door, shutting the noise out with a turn of the key. The riot of fragrance and color from the countless bouquets threatens to overcome her. Too heady; too warm, she drops the cape and stands cooler in the filmy Greek gown.

She sits at her dressing table, sniffing the single rosebud and smiling to herself. She removes the pearl headdress, freeing her curls. Closing her eyes, she savors the caress of her tresses as they fall against her neck, back, shoulders. Helen moves to the large, gilt-framed mirror. She shakes out her hair, admiring the wanton look it gives her before deftly twisting it into a chignon and securing it with some golden braid.

She releases the shoulder clips and lets the gown slip to the floor. Turning, she reaches for the peach caftan.

It has just slipped from the hanger when the breath is forced from her lungs by the impact of her body against the dressing room door. Ragged breath in her ear, hands insinuated between her naked body and the door, squeezing her breast, sliding down her belly, seeking her center.

"I—" she gasps, her head yanked back, exposing her throat to nips, sucks, bruising kisses.

She is spun around, pinned against the door by chest and shoulders as the marauding hands retreat, fumbling with trousers. Her legs are hitched up, her howls muffled by his mouth on hers as he impales her, driving her into the door.

"Helen…"

A knock, just outside. The pair freezes, locked together.

"Christine?"

She pries her mouth free, "Yes…"

"Two minutes."

"Thank you…"

An inhuman growl; a door-rattling, knee-trembling finish.

"God…" I feel gloriously wobbly.

Christine pokes at my shoulder. "Handkerchief, sil vous plait." She pushes me away, feigning impatience. "Get off me, you fiend, I have to work."

Another knock.

"Christine?"

"Yes, ready," she calls, slipping the caftan on.

As she pirouettes out the door, she flips the handkerchief back to me. "Until then, Paris."

Life was very, very good.

We had just marked our third anniversary when Christine 'took the bit in her mouth', as the equestrians say. Once again, in my naiveté, I thought things were settled, peaceful, routine—not boring, no, never with a female in the house…cave. But nicely ordered, I would say. I knew what to expect, within reason, on a daily basis, and that is pleasant when middle age has snuck up on one. Christine's career was going better than we could have dreamed. She had invitations to sing abroad, which she always declined because she did not want to leave me. I urged her to go, but she insisted she'd miss me too much. I admit it is difficult for my vanity to argue with that. We had a delightful little family cobbled together from an orphan, a widow and an outcast. I spoiled Christine however I could and doted on her shamefully. I still couldn't believe she was really with me.

I felt no remorse over Meg; why should I? I believed that I was protecting my family, and time had proved me right. I wish I could have spared Christine and Adele the grief, but clearly the greater good had been served. Meg was incidental; it was no trouble to put it behind me.

So I wandered in for supper on one of a string of perfect days as the ladies fluttered down from the new rooms upstairs. Adele kissed and patted my cheek as she breezed by.

"Maman," I was calling her 'Maman' now, as well, "you're not staying to supper? It smells edible."

"Not tonight, dear. I'll see you children tomorrow." 'Children'…I'm fifty three. I shrugged suspiciously. There was a feminine mood afoot.

"I should let you starve, you dreadful man," Christine was smiling. "'It smells edible', indeed."

"So do you," I slithered over, making suggestions. I got a plate and a look for my trouble.

"Eat."

Then I noticed that Christine was blinking. I took a mental inventory of my opium and drained my wineglass.

"Erik…"

"Yes." I tried to sound eager to comply.

"Could you paint the other room? Not ours…"

I was unable to control my unruly eyebrow from shooting skyward. "I could…" I replied warily. "Ah, what would you like?" That sounds better than "WHY?", doesn't it?

"Um…I don't know…maybe bunnies, and clouds, and springtime…something pretty." Erik's personal alarm bells were tinkling. I could not put my finger on it, but it was all so…premeditatedly un-premeditated.

"Something pretty," I repeated.

"Mm."

"Alright. I'll start some sketches after supper," I ended agreeably.

Now, I thought I was being an exemplary husband. I took my instructions without question and agreed to comply directly. Imagine my chagrin—my bafflement--when I spied her sniffling over her noodles.

I set my fork down gingerly as I reviewed the conversation in excruciating detail. No, I was absolutely certain that this had to be a new, previously undiscovered rule I was transgressing, because I had behaved impeccably according to all the rules I knew.

"Chri—"

"Don't you even care WHY I want you to paint cute things on the wall? You're not even the least bit curious!"

I decided to move cautiously and plead male stupidity. "Darling, sometimes when I'm curious, you advise me in no uncertain terms that it's not my business…it's not always so simple to tell the difference between when I am supposed to be curious and when I am not."

"You're impossible!" she dissolved into full fledged sobbing.

Usually pleading stupidity mollifies her…I had never been called 'impossible' before. The mice of panic were scuttling all around my feet. It may not seem like a crisis, but for me, Christine's displeasure…makes me ill very rapidly. I was already sweating and shaky inside; supper had settled like a rock and I had to concentrate to breathe properly. Settle, Erik.

"I've upset you somehow," I observed, calmly and inanely. Impossibly, Christine padded over and curled up in my lap. My heart threatened to leap from my chest. I'm impossible, but I'm supposed to hold her and comfort her. Impossible…comfort her. _Help me_.

I kept silent and held her. I could not trust myself to speak anyway. I decided I would let her have her cry—it often helps—and by then, perhaps, I would have some hint as to how to get out of this scrape, whatever it was. I tried to will the opium into my hand.

Finally Christine's sniffles subsided. I can normally gauge when it's over by the dampness of my shirt.

"You are curious, aren't you, really?" she asked stuffily, picking at my lapel.

"Of course," please let that be correct, I winced.

She pulled my head down and whispered, "Bunnies for the baby."

All I could hear was the shrieking in my mind. I froze. Some small portion of sanity remained, telling me I'd have more trouble if I didn't manage this properly from this very moment. Her eyes were huge and expectant, her smile flickering, but awaiting mine to truly bloom. I pulled her close so I would not have to look at that face.

"Christine, I'm speechless," I said, which was true.

Fortunately that was all I needed to say.

"You're going to be a wonderful papa, Erik! I suppose you want a boy first? The doctor just confirmed it today. Maman came with me—you don't mind I told her before you? Well, I wasn't sure, I needed someone to ask about things. We went window shopping on the way home. So many beautiful things, Erik, and they're all so tiny! Little shoes for little feet, little bonnets for little heads…I cannot wait to shop! We have to think of names, what names do you like? Would you mind if we called him Gustav, after my Father? What is your Persian friend's name again? He's not even Christian, is he? Wherever will we find godparents? I hope he has your eyes…"

"I'd prefer he had nothing of mine, Christine…" I breathed, adrift.

"Oh, Erik, no," she stroked my cheek and tried to soothe me. "You're worried—don't be. He'll be perfect, I know he will. Everything will be perfect."

Oh.

I only spent one night pacing and vomiting, struggling with my decision. (I must seem like a neurotic mess; really, I'm not. I'm quite sane: calm, rational, except where Christine is concerned.) I had to act quickly if I was going to give Christine an abortifacient, and my nerves couldn't take the upheaval of leaving it unresolved anyway. I saw two corridors ahead: one led to unremitting days of the peaceful life to which I'd become accustomed, and the other to utter chaos: noise, mess, my place usurped, Christine's mind distracted, her career vanquished, and her sweet body, my precious plaything, ruined. No, clearly her unfortunate condition was rendering her insensible. I owed it to her to protect her from this catastrophe.

It took two doses of my gypsy remedy to get the parasite out of her. I didn't want to cause her any undue discomfort, so I started with a very mild dose. She felt a bit out of sorts, but nothing came of it. The second dose was half again as strong and worked wonderfully. When it was all over, I held her and wept real tears—of relief—and vowed to be MUCH more careful in the future.

Maman proved to be an invaluable aid to Christine's healing. She assured her that such unfortunate events were God's way of making sure that things like me did not happen—she did not say that, of course, but that is what she meant. She murmured platitudes about how young Christine was, and how there would be plenty of healthy, beautiful babies. HA. Over my rotting carcass. Christine was encouraged by this, and was back to herself surprisingly quickly; youthful resilience. She approached me with a lusty new determination, assuming that our dedication to the conception project was mutual. I managed to hold her off with the considerate husband trump again while she 'regained her strength'.

I tried to keep track of Christine's womanly details and avoid her when it seemed most likely to be A Bad Time, and actually had good success for awhile. Looking back, I can see now that I should have just tied her up again and had done with it. I was able to exercise some self-control then; no fumbling to get away in time, no being completely at her mercy as she rode me to mutual oblivion. I still have bouts of abject self-hatred when I realize what a weak-willed, cunt-struck moron I was. Am. I did not realize until after the job was done that my precious Christine had evolved into a scheming praying mantis of a woman. Deviously, she worked against me, pressed her obvious advantage and seduced me shamelessly.

"Do you intend to sleep all day, Prima Donna?"

Christine stretched, sat up and scooted over. I joined her and handed her a cup of coffee. She took several sips before turning it over to me.

Insinuating herself under my arm, she yawned, "I don't believe I'll take rehearsal today."

"Oh really?" I do not encourage the missing of rehearsal.

"Mm. I want to stay right here." She looked up at me guilessly even as her little hand slipped into my trousers.

"You are a wicked girl. Get up." At least I tried.

"I have a better idea. You lie down. Oooh, he's awake," she smiled. "May I see?"

"If my diva commands…"

"Yes. I do." She stroked the demon with maddening tenderness.

"Erik, this is _such_ a beautiful thing. I am positive it's the most beautiful thing in the entire world."

"Yes, Madame, given your extensive experience of _things_…"

"Oh, hush, Don Juan. I'm so glad I like it. I used to worry about that, before I had a good look at it," she confessed.

"I am gratified that you two have become such dear friends, love."

"What shall Christine do, Erik? Can you say?" She slithered down toward my lap. "Shall she kiss it?"

"Mm, please. Kiss it."

"Hm, shall I tie my hair back? You want to watch, don't you?"

"Yes, tie it back."

"If I do, you must promise you won't close your eyes. Promise?"

"Promise. Kiss it."

"Tch tch…so impatient."

Whisper-soft kisses, firm kisses…nibbling kisses. Up…to…there. Whew…down the other side. Her cool palm, gently cupping the twins. More kisses—yeow, a flick of the tongue.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Erik didn't say Christine should lick it."

"Christine should lick it."

"Are you sure? I would hate to—"

"Lick it, dammit."

"Down here?"

"Mm."

"Up here?"

"Mm-hm, there."

"What about right here, like this?"

"Yeayeayeayea, like that." I was lying perfectly still, but I felt as though I was trembling violently inside. Presently I felt that first little tingle at the base of my spine.

"Christine. Suck it."

"You mean, put my lips like so…"

"Mm." Warm, wet…suction. Yesss—AGH! Cold—don't stop! "What!"

"Erik? Do you suppose this is a sin?" _You must be joking._

"No, no. Absolutely not." Excellent, back to work. "Ooohhh, Christine, you are such a good girl…" Look at that; is there anything more glorious than watching your woman slowly devour you? All bodily sensation concentrated in those few inches that really mattered. Cannot take much more of this. Is it possible to have one's innards sucked out thus, I wonder?

I growled, drew Christine up and tossed her onto her back. She squealed, surprised at the ferocity of my approach. In one fluid motion, I folded her up, put her legs over my shoulders and ploughed home. "Beast," she groaned, dug her nails in.

I didn't even think about pulling out. I should have; it seemed as if I poured gallons into her. Sometimes it almost hurts, the contractions are so violent and protracted. She stretched her legs out just as I collapsed on her.

"Unh. I'm dead," I admitted finally, rolling away.

"I hope not," she bit my neck.

"I owe you, Woman…give me a moment."

"Take your time; we have all day, remember?"

"Good. I'm old."

"You don't feel old," she laughed.


	8. Chapter 8

"Christine, my treasure, do you _really_ need another half of a squab, _and_ to sop up all that gravy with another hunk of bread?"

"I'm hungry."

"My diva, I love you, and if you continue this way, you'll get fat." I was smiling, and my tone was gentle, but I meant it.

"What?"

"Erik did not fall in love with a fat girl, Erik did not marry a fat girl, and Erik does not wish to be married to a fat girl. Christine is not a fat girl."

She stared at me. "I can't believe what I'm hearing! For you, of all people, to put such stock in appearances—"

"When one faces what I do in the mirror each day, Christine, one becomes quite a connoisseur of aesthetics. I prefer to surround myself with beautiful things, and have made it my habit to do so. You may have noticed."

"Don't take that superior tone with me, you hateful old man. You've got grey hairs on your chest; do I threaten to divorce you over it?"

"You had perfection in your little hands, my love. You paddled away with it, I watched you go—but you turned back for this magnificent specimen," I laughed. "I'm not threatening you, Darling. I'm merely pointing out that you are eating like a draft horse—"

"Draft horse! You pig!"

"--and you will soon be shaped like a dumpling. You don't wish to be shaped like a dumpling, do you? Personally, I find the prospect as unattractive as I do your new penchant for speaking your mind." I dodged the fork she pitched at me.

"For your information, Mr Perfection, I am not getting fat. It's a baby."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I didn't want to say anything until I was farther along and I was sure everything was alright. I didn't want to jinx it."

No no no no no nonononononono NNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

"Farther along…farther along." I mumbled. "When?"

"Christmas," she replied smugly. It was late July.

"Halfway?" it came out as a squeal. Panic perched on my shoulder.

"Mm-hm, and as you see," she hopped up and spun around like a little turnip, "everything is going perfectly."

"Perfectly," I echoed, feeling extremely nauseous.

"Oh, Erik, I know you're worried," she cradled my head against her ballooning chest, "but there's no need. Everything is going to be alright this time. Look how far along I am, and not the first hint of any trouble whatsoever. I feel wonderful!"

Oh.

I did a hasty bit of research. It was still theoretically possible to flush the parasite out, but it would take a more heroic dosage, and it was much more risky than flushing out something the size of a sesame seed. I would not risk Christine, never. I would have to find a way to kill it after it was safely out of her.

I could not find peace no matter what I did. I could not take enough opium. I could not turn to Christine—she was utterly on the side of the parasite already. I could not talk to Adele—women form a cabal at such times. However, I could vomit and suffer blinding headaches.

"It has been a long time since you consumed so much opium so quickly, my friend," the daroga observed. "You worry me."

"I'm fine," I growled.

"Is this another lover's quarrel, by any chance?"

"NO. She's…embarrassed."

"Erik, this is wonderful news!" He took note of my expression. "You don't agree."

"She's fat, I can't stand to look at her. It's all she can talk about, she's already forgotten all about me." I may have been whining; my head was splitting.

"What did you expect, my friend? If one dances, one must expect to pay the piper…and I take it you have been dancing," he reminded me pointedly.

"Carefully… or so I thought."

"You're married nearly four years now, hm? You've done well for yourself. These things happen, Erik."

"'These thingshappen.' I'm too old for this, daroga. I don't want a noisy, smelly thing tearing around, destroying my things—destroying my life! It's already destroyed Christine."

"Oh, now, it isn't as bad as all that. You're worried, this is understandable, but I assure you that Christine has not forgotten about you. She loves you more than ever, now. But this is the first child, you must expect her to be preoccupied."

"First. Last." I sulked.

"I see," the daroga smiled, humoring me.

"I'll likely not touch her again, now that she's ruined."

"You must make some effort to get your imagination under control, my friend. You're making this far worse than it needs to be. I promise you, once the dear little thing is here, you'll be enchanted."

"I will not, never. Just give me my opium."

I took Christine upstairs to Adele's when the time came. I was not about to have an assortment of doctors, midwives and whatnot traipsing through my cave. I was overcome with grief and terror. I had no idea what the future could possibly hold for me, when already she had been obsessed with it for months and it had not even arrived yet. I took an enormous amount of opium and passed out. Next thing, Adele was shaking me, telling me to 'go see them'.

Christine looked round-faced, puffy-eyed, and transported with joy. "Look, Erik, she's perfect, I told you. She's beautiful."

Well, it didn't have my face, and it looked as though it had all its arms, legs, and other parts, but it looked like a hairless, wrinkled, red monkey. It was latched onto a hugely swollen breast like a leech, and its little monkey hands were kneading ferociously. Christine stroked its fuzzy little head and crooned something like, "Look, Erika, it's Papa, say hello."

Yes, say hello, you little assassin. What you've got there, that used to be mine, but no more. I had imagined that Christine had looked at me with love, until I saw her gazing at that flat-faced thing. She had fallen instantly, absolutely in love with it. It was perfectly clear that I could not kill it after all, because that would have broken Christine's heart. No more love for Erik. Something died inside me. I choked down a sob.

"Erika? You can't call it Erika," I declared flatly.

"Can't call _her_ Erika. _Her_. Why not?"

"Because…"

"Erik, she's your daughter—"

"No, it's not. It's yours, you wanted it; I didn't."

"Oh, and you had nothing to do with HER, I suppose?"

"As little as possible; clearly not little enough." I was feeling out of control.

"Fine: you name her then."

"Ophelia." I was probably thinking about the drowning bit.

"Ophelia! Erik, I am not going to call our darling baby Ophelia! What is wrong with you?"

What is wrong with me? _Me?_ "Well, I am not going to call it Erika."

"_Her_! She is not an it!"

"Fine." I repeatedly wished I was dead, but I could not just lay down and die; I tried. I have read about certain native peoples who can do so. They simply decide to die, lay down, and expire.

Christine brought it down in a week. She was fussing to come home before that, but Adele insisted she stay up with her. When she got home, I was relieved to see that she seemed to feel quite well. Her appetite was good, and she needed to rest a lot because the parasite was at her every two hours for food. Christine wanted me to sleep with them; yes, it was there too, in my former marriage bed. That room I painted all that time ago? It looked as though the thing would never see it. Christine turned her back to me and curled up with it. It made noise all night and never let her sleep, but she didn't mind at all. Woe betide me had I ever tried to wake her from a sound sleep to help myself to a bit of nipple. But that fiend, which had caused her an incredible amount of pain from what I had heard, had unrestricted access at all hours. I had never made her suffer like it had, and I was invisible—no, forgotten. I was forgotten. Once again, I was brought up short against my ridiculous conviction that things should be fair in life. Ha, ha! Imagine me, with my face, expecting life to be fair!

All day long, I did everything to care for Christine and everything else in the house, because she was strictly assigned to feed that thing, nothing more. I have always required that my surroundings remain neat and orderly. Now, even with Adele's tireless assistance, the place looked as though the Visigoths had come to call. Christine was demanding refreshment at odd hours, so the kitchen was never finished. Tiny garments were everywhere: needing to be washed; draped all over, drying; or waiting to be put away. There are endless rags associated with these creatures. They eat constantly, but can't seem to work out how to swallow and keep it down, so rags must be kept at the ready in case they choose to spew. They give no warning of this whatsoever. Neither do they warn that they intend to pee or shit all over themselves and whoever happens to be holding them. After observing the thing's habits, I was confident that Christine would sicken of it quickly, but it never happened. Women adore these parasites, the more disgusting the better, apparently. My coffin was the perfect place for me, for never was a man more truly in mourning. I had turned my perfectly-ordered life upside down to please her, only to be supplanted by a sucking, spewing, shitting monkey.

"Here, Erik, hold your daughter while I eat."

"No."

"Why not?"

"I don't want to."

"Erik."

"It's…too small."

"Just support her head. Come here, don't be afraid. You'll never learn if you don't try."

"I'm not afraid. I just don't want to."

"Erik!"

"It'll pee on me."

"_She_ will not. Anyway, your clothes wash."

I made a face which Christine blithely ignored. Suddenly, I was crying. "Christine, don't make me," I pleaded. "I hate all this, everything is a mess. You never speak to me anymore except about that thing. It's always on you, I can never hold you. Please, I just want it to be like it was before. Love me, Christine!"

"I had no idea you could be so childish," she replied imperiously.

I wish she had just stabbed me. Pleading with the only light in my life for some comfort, begging for her to love me again, and she tells me I'm being childish. I tell you, I could not get my fragile mind around what had just occurred.

"That was not childish, Christine," I replied, icily. "_This_ is childish." I flung the dinner tray at the dressing table. The mirror and china shattered, and the creature awoke and started to shriek.

"Erik, stop it!" she was shielding the thing's head, as if it would be traumatized to witness the scene. So what.

"_This_ is childish," I repeated. I kicked the nightstand and sent the lamp and assorted stuff flying, crashing. My nemesis shrieked even louder. I made for the door, which I slammed fiercely. "THIS IS CHILDISH!" I screamed from the hallway.

I slammed my coffin lid shut too; not that anyone would have heard me sobbing over the assassin's squawks. I even asked god for help that night.

I retreated into the role of the Phantom in my own home. Adele cared for Christine and glared at me wordlessly whenever an opportunity presented itself. No matter, I was clearly through with women forever. I was overjoyed when my Persian friend visited. I felt certain he would be a sympathetic ear, an ally in a world of feminine madness. The first thing he did was ask to see "The little blessing." I was stunned, but remained convinced that once he saw the thing and had a chance to observe the situation, he'd fully commiserate with me over the tragic depths to which my life had fallen.

He joined me in the library. I had raced around and made that room at least look inhabitable. When I handed him a glass, he raised it in toast to 'Your little angel.' I grimaced, drained the Merlot and poured myself another.

"Christine is my little angel, thank you."

"She is lovely," he continued. "She has her mother's coloring, and your graceful hands, I think."

"Are you having me on?" I demanded.

"Not at all. Why?"

"Daroga," I threw my arms wide, "look at my home, will you? Look at what that little fiend has done, in, what, a matter of weeks? It looks like a monkey, it is noisy and filthy. I told you I didn't want it to start with, and it's worse than even I imagined. I have no life. I have no _wife_! It has completely stolen her away."

"She is a new mother, Erik. What did you expect?" He did not sound sympathetic at all.

"You saw her, daroga. You remember what she used to look like, don't you? What is that…pony in there? Christine is gone, she'll never be back; I just know it. I just know it. It doesn't matter…I no longer exist for her."

"You're pacing."

"So I am."

"You're nearly raving."

"If I were, I'd be within my rights."

"Sit your conceited, selfish, infantile self down," he demanded.

"_What_!"

"Sit, you ass." I sat and glared at him. He ignored me, as usual.

"Erik, Christine is feeling quite vulnerable just now. Very dependent, very much in need of all the support and understanding that you can muster. I recognize that is not much, as tragic as you are feeling, but you must try."

"Very nice, very nice. She is vulnerable? She needs understanding? She is having a glorious time with her new love—she could not be happier. My life is in a shambles. Why doesn't anyone care about me? I thought you were my friend!"

"I am, even when you pout."

"Then why do you take her side in this?"

"In what? This is no feud, Erik. The child is here, like it or not. Your child. What will you do: stay or go?"

"Go."

"Then go," he shrugged. "Did that Vicomte ever marry? Perhaps he would take the pony off your hands."

"I should have killed you years ago."

"Mm."

Once again, I attempted to make him understand. "She doesn't love me anymore. I'm invisible, she never even speaks to me except about the monkey."

"She loves you more than ever for the priceless gift you've given her. Not a monkey, by the way."

"Priceless gift?" I was nonplussed. "I've given her music—her voice—her career! Assorted sparkly things that women love, all my devotion, everything; but this? It was an accident!"

"Not to her."

"Well," I shrugged, "I'm dispensable now. I've made my…contribution."

"She risked her life to give you this gift, you know. Women die all the time giving birth."

"This is not working, daroga. I refuse to be made the villain in this drama. I will not apologize for wanting my life back!"

"Poor Erik, you really are frightened, aren't you? It is alright to grieve, my friend. You are right that things are different now. They need not be awful, as you imagine, but they will be different." He handed me another bottle of Merlot to open. "I'm sorry if I seem unsympathetic, Erik. If you want to complain, please complain to me—not Christine. She can't understand it, and I know you don't want to hurt her."

"No, I don't."

"You must stop referring to the baby as 'it'".

"It's ugly and messy," I insisted. "Daroga! How could she possibly want more ugliness in her life? I'm not even ugly enough for her!"

He shook his head. "You are not a family sort of man. You are old, spoiled, and set in your ways. You are incoherent with jealousy of a completely defenseless infant."

"Yes, absolutely. I agree. It was a terrible idea; now do you see? No one ever listens to me!"

"Too late, my friend. You should have continued to love Christine from afar," he chuckled.

"Stop it, for god's sake."

"Erika is not ugly. Have you noticed her eyes? They are the eyes of someone you love…"

"They are not."

"When did you look at her last?"

"When it first came out."

The daroga laughed. "That was weeks ago. Brand new babies are a bit strange, I agree, but she looks nothing like that now. You are such a hopeless case, Erik. Her skin is the softest thing you will ever touch. If you give her your finger, she will clutch it so tightly with that perfect, tiny hand."

"Christine is the softest thing I've ever touched. Christine has perfect, tiny hands. I am not interested in anyone else."

"You're incorrigible." He stood and held his hand out to me as if I was I child. "Come along, let's go meet your daughter."

"No."

"Erik, have I been wasting my time here with you?"

"Yes."

"If you don't make some attempt you will lose Christine, do you understand that?"

I shrugged. "She is gone anyway. The parasite took her, you can see that for yourself."

"The child is not a parasite. How long will you persist in this?"

"Til one of us dies. It _is_ a parasite—it lives off her."

"So do you! Pull yourself together or I will take a switch to you! Stop sulking!" He shook me. I cried. It's all I ever did anymore.

"You're enjoying this, you're having your cruel amusement at my expense!" I accused.

"You do love your misery, don't you, Erik? Come along, let's make friends."

Christine was sipping tea in the kitchen. It was stuck on her arm, as usual, staring at her. We at least have that in common.

"Look what I found, Madame," the daroga smiled, dragging me along like a schoolboy due for a whipping. "This bad boy you may remember." He made me sit.

"Yes, I remember," she replied softly. He was right, I'd hurt her. No wonder she hated me.

"Erik, why don't you hold your baby so your wife may enjoy her tea?"

"No."

"It's alright," Christine sighed. "I am finished anyway."

"Erik," the daroga snarled through gritted teeth, "why don't you hold your baby so your wife may clean up?"

"I'll clean up," I hopped up.

"Sssssiiiiiiiittttttt," he hissed. "Give him the baby, Madame," he ordered.

"Daroga, it'll pee on me. Can't I just look at it—her? What if it squirms and I drop it—her? Christine will beat me."

"You see, it's useless," Christine informed him. She started to leave, and my Persian friend shot me the Look of Death.

"Wait," I grumbled.

"I don't want you to force yourself to do something you'd rather not," Christine replied coolly.

"You say that now," I accused, "after you tricked me."

"You have my word that I will never trouble you again," she sniffed. I know it, Christine!

"Children…" the daroga pleaded, "if you would kindly postpone your mating dance until I've departed. Erik, take the child before I thrash you."

It was dreadfully small and light. It would have been simple to drop except it was made a bigger parcel by the blanket it was wrapped in. It wasn't red anymore, it was pinkish—a nice pinkish, with blond fuzz on its head. It looked right at me and knit its little brows in a sort of monkey-frown. It seemed to be thinking. It did have Christine's eyes. It didn't stink; I was surprised. It smelled…sweet and clean. Finally, it decided that it definitely did not recognize me. It made a horrible face and started to scream. I pressed it back on Christine, mortified.

"You frightened her, Erik," she scolded.

"I frighten everyone, remember?" I snapped.

"You were frowning at her; you need to smile at her. How else will she know you're friendly?"

"It was frowning at me. She, I mean."

"No she wasn't."

"You didn't see. It was. She was."

"She was not frowning at you. She was just looking at you." She spun away, walking around the room and speaking softly to it. It stopped screeching as soon as it beheld its dairy cow. "That is your Papa, you may not remember. He doesn't mean to be scary, he just frowns when he is nervous, and you make him very, very nervous. Yes, you do. You're so tiny and so precious, he's afraid you'll break, isn't that silly? Silly Papa, he loves you very much. He is the handsomest, most brilliant man in the whole world, and he is your Papa. What a lucky little girl you are."

It made a sound, like, Now you're lying, Mother. Christine continued undaunted. "Yes, I know. Very soon, he will sing for you, and wait until you hear his voice. That's how I came to fall in love with him, he sang for me. You'll see; your Papa is an angel."

"Does she talk to it like that all the time? Her--" I whispered to my Persian friend.

"Mm. They like to be spoken to."

"But…nonsense like that?"

"If she spoke nonsense like that to you, you'd kiss her feet!"

"I'd do better than that…"

Fortunately, I had very little to do with it after that. Most of the time, Christine was content to haul it around. I don't understand exactly why you can't just plop them down someplace; they can't run off. Sometimes Christine would foist it upon me if she wanted to do something, and it would monkey-frown at me, but it had stopped shrieking everytime I got it. Perhaps it understood Christine's propaganda. It had begun to vocalize and wiggle a lot as it grew, and it was beginning to appear adorable in a conventional baby sort of way to people who care about such things. Presently, however, in addition to peeing and spewing and shitting, it began to drool. So it was really as unsavory as ever.


	9. Chapter 9

"We'll only be gone an hour. Just one hour," Christine was fretting and tearful.

"She'll be fine, dear, she'll sleep the entire time you're gone. You must get outside," Adele was insisting, shoving her out of the room.

The monkey was about three months old and Adele had persuaded Christine to abandon it to my care, just long enough to convince Christine that neither she nor the monkey would perish if they were separated, I believe.

I looked down at it. It was in its own bed, for the first time if I'm not mistaken. It no longer monkey-frowned at me. It sortof opened its mouth, made a face the women somehow identified as happy and kicked or wiggled its hands, as if it were inviting me to play, if you can imagine anything so absurd.

The strangest development was that I was beginning to suspect that it disliked the mask. Naturally, it was inconceivable to me that it could prefer my face, but it was definitely fascinated by faces in general. It seemed that the flat, featureless nature of the mask unsettled it.

"Ahem, look here, Ophelia," I opened. It stopped wiggling and stared at me. It did seem to enjoy being spoken to, but I was feeling ridiculous. "I am Erik, and I am required to supervise you until your Mother returns. I do not like it any more than you do. Now: I am going to sit over there," I gestured to the rocking chair, "and attempt to read, if you will be silent. Your Mother will return directly; however, in the meantime, I have NO FOOD for you. Observe." I exposed my flat chest, and it frowned at it. I believe it understood. "Also, if you will be so good as to not pee or shit or spew or anything like that, I shall be extremely grateful. When you are older, I shall get you a kitten if you will keep all your waste products to yourself until Mother returns. Thank you."

I made a mental note to start a page in my notebook about bargains I struck with the little fiend, so I would not forget anything. I was positive that it would turn me in to Christine if I did not come through with the kitten.

It screeched as soon as I sat down. It stopped and made a happy face as soon as I reappeared.

"Stop that. You are not abandoned. I know what it means to be abandoned--you do not."

I was not even seated before it started again.

"Monkey, this will get you nowhere with me. I am immune to your dubious charms. If you continue to scream, I shall rescind my kitten offer."

It either did not understand human speech after all, or it simply did not care. It screeched again when I disappeared from view.

"Ophelia. I will not dance attendance on you. We must find a way to coexist, and I believe I am being more than agreeable with you. You must hold up your end of the bargain, and try to be agreeable with me. Now, no more screeching or I will strangle you."

The next time I reappeared, it did not stop screeching. It did not care whether I was visible or not, whether I spoke or not. It just wanted to shriek, so I left it. I went down to the library; I could ignore it from there. I read, confident that it would eventually get tired and give up, but it didn't. I began to worry that if it was still carrying on when Christine returned, I'd be even more of a persona non grata than I already was. There was nothing for it but to return to the assassin's lair.

"Alright," I sighed, "you extortionist. What do you want?"

It had the same runny nose that Christine always gets when she cries too hard. Its entire face was juicy. It looked at me as if I was expected to remedy the situation somehow.

"Oh, for god's sake," I resigned. I used my handkerchief to wipe all the goo away, then found to my unparalleled horror that I had no place to put it but in my own pocket. I blasphemed. I came close to vomiting all over the little beast, which would have served it right, but I had no idea how to clean it up, so I fought that idea down. Anyway, if I did manage to vomit on it, Christine would find out somehow, and she would accuse me of trying to kill it. As if I would ever resort to anything so inelegant.

It was no longer making noise, but it was still staring at me expectantly. Clearly it thought it could charm me somehow.

"I am not going to pick you up, no. No. That is a perfectly comfortable bed, and there is nothing you need. I am not going to pick you up. I'm clean and wish to remain so."

It threatened to cry again. Really, it did; if you observe them, they screw their faces up before they howl, and it was just starting to screw its face up. I picked it up. I had to; it was wrecking me with its mental torture. It released a victory gurgle and permitted me to sit. When I began to read, it realized that it was no longer monopolizing all of my attention, so it began to squirm and kick. I had already discovered that it believed that it must completely monopolize all the attention of every sentient being within its sphere of control. I was still working out precisely how vast the sphere of control was.

"Here, you insufferable tyrant: Shakespeare. If I read this aloud, will you keep still? Would that please you? " The monkey enjoyed Richard the Third. It sucked on its hand until it fell asleep. Traumatized, I fell asleep, too. When Christine returned, she startled me awake with a kiss, the kind that I used to get--I think; I didn't really remember anymore.

I read more into the kiss than I should have. I went into what used to be our bedroom, sat on the edge of the bed. Christine was humming; how I missed the sound of that precious voice. The tryant was sucking away as usual. I still got a knot in my gut every time I saw it latched on like that. Christine acknowledged me with a little smile, certainly nothing like what I used to get before, but my new reality dictated that I would have to survive on scraps.

"Christine, could you perhaps let…her sleep in her own room? Just tonight. Just til I fall asleep?"

"All alone?" she looked as if I had asked her to let me eat it.

"I want to curl up with you. Please."

"Of course you can curl up with us, Erik," she smiled.

"Not…both of you. Just you. Just us, like it used to be." Her face was saying no, so I started pleading shamelessly. Not a shred of self-respect was left to me. "I don't want anything from you, I swear. I just want to hold you." It was true.

"She's a tiny baby, Erik. How fair is it that a tiny baby is all alone in the dark, and the adults don't have to sleep alone?"

"How fair is it that I've slept alone since it got here? She got here."

"I never said you couldn't sleep with us. That's been your own choice."

"It has not been my choice. I want to sleep with you." I was definitely whining. I know that she hated it when I whined, but I couldn't help myself.

"You may sleep with me. And Erika."

"You should have called it Raoul," I spat, disgusted.

It used to be so peaceful. Then Christine had that child, and all the rules changed. I was instantly unable to do anything to please her, and she got angry every time I spoke with her. It had poisoned her mind against me. All I wanted was to please her, a dog at her feet. No more, no more. The only thing which even remotely satisfied her was if I was nice to her baby. Keep your friends close; keep your enemies closer, they say.

After five or six months, Christine's body appeared to be returning to something resembling its former contours. The parasite was growing so quickly that she could no longer produce enough food for it, so she began to supplement it with a variety of mush. I do not recommend watching an infant eat under any circumstances. It had several strictly ornamental teeth at this point; at least I hope they were ornamental for Christine's sake. The point is, the teeth were of no use for the mush, and it spat and bubbled out fully ninety percent of what Christine shoveled into it. I harbored a fleeting thought that it might perish of starvation, but my luck did not hold out. By this time, it could sit up and flail with relative accuracy. It took wild swings at the spoon, or brought its fist crashing down on the bowl, so the mush would fly every which way. The spectacle was nauseating, and I was terrified for my wardrobe and my home. I could not be present for any of it. It would get an evil glint in its eye and wave a fat little hand, all gooey with green or orange mush. Hoho, Erik, bring that immaculate shirt over here. Let me get my grubby mitts on that brocade waistcoat, you pathetic bastard. As usual, Christine and Adele found the bubbling, spitting and even some of the flailing and splattering adorable.

The women generally took a perverse delight in every novel way that the ever-more-mobile creature found to torment me. When it found itself in my befuddled, terrified arms, it would squeal with satanic glee and try to coat my face with as much drool as possible. It would suck on my chin or nose if it got the chance; it would gnaw on my fingers or my lapels if I was not vigilant. It would pat-pat-pat or slap-slap-slap cheeks, eyes, whatever it could reach. I was in peril whenever they made me hold it anyway. I tried to explain to them that I should not be required to hold it, that women have soft, cushy laps suitable for holding stomping babies. Men most definitely do not. They insisted that it knew and loved me, and that I had to stop being so distant. Well, I know and love you, Christine, what do you say to that?

It began to make a new kind of racket, wholly independent of shrieking and wailing. It discovered that it could go "ma ma ma ma" one day, strictly accidentally. It was just playing with its mouth, but to Christine, this was conversation, this was brilliance. A huge to-do ensued, which gave the little creature cause to expect that any sound it managed to conjure up should be met with Bravissimas and standing ovations.

Christine happened to race into the music room one day with her little prodigy. "Erik! Listen! Go on, Darling, tell Papa…" Of course it did not understand this command, but after the excitement of Mother Running was past, it resumed its babbling: "Ba ba ba ba ba ba!"

Oh-ho, but Erik is no fool; he has been at this for months now: he has the correct response at the ready.

"That is wonderful, dear. Brava, ah, Erika."

"She said 'Papa!'" Christine cried breathlessly. I used to get her like that…

"Yes, I heard, lovely." It most certainly did not say 'Papa'. Besides, I told it whenever Mother was out of range that I was to be addressed as 'Erik', and only when absolutely necessary, as in "Erik, please wake up, the house is being invaded". We were developing an understanding; the 'Papa' designation seemed much too intimate to both of us.

One evening, Christine advised that she was having a bath, meaning, 'Erik, you are on duty. Do not let the child set fire to anything other than yourself, because, as you know, I no longer care if you burn to death.' Fine. I protected myself with a pillow and it was duly plopped into my lap. It immediately went for my book.

"No, this is not yours and if you touch it, it will be destroyed."

It was distracted by a sudden inspiration to stomp on the pillow, hoist itself up, and plant a sucking, drooling 'kiss', according to Christine, on my face.

"Charming, thank you."

"Ba ba ba ba ba."

"No, what have we discussed? Erik."

"Rih."

"Hm. Yes, alright, that is an 'R-I' sound. Brava."

"Rih."

"Yes, good. Sufficient."

"RIH!"

"Do not bellow, it is unlovely in a young lady. You cannot hope to ensnare a vapid Vicomte if you bellow. Ssshhh."

"TTHHHPPHHH. Rih rih."

"Brilliant…look, sit down, will you? Yes, sit down. Good. Thank you."

"Rih."

"Be certain you mention that to You-Know-Who when she returns, the Rih, she will be elated." Now that it was older, if you mentioned 'Mother' when Mother was not actually present, you instigated a riot. "Shall we read? I shall read, and you shall not touch the book. Are we agreed?"

"Rih."

"Right, if she stays gone long enough, perhaps we'll even read about your namesake."

It was asleep well before Ophelia's big scene. Christine returned and praised me lavishly for having put it to sleep so cleverly. I lapped it up: self respect is grossly overrated. She looked quite pretty, in a frothy gown which appeared miraculously unstained by baby-spew. She scooped the harmless-looking thing into her arms and whispered, "I was thinking of putting her down in her bed, at least for awhile. I'll just…be upstairs."

Hm. In the halcyon days of our marriage, this would have been a bona-fide invitation to paradise…but in the present climate, I had no idea what to make of it.

Christine was reading, but started dramatically when I entered.

"I am a bit rusty," I smiled, "Did you mean to imply that you wanted my company?"

"Yes," she set her book aside and chewed on a finger. She studied me as I undressed; this was sufficiently nerve-wracking. I slipped in beside her, a bit hesitant to reach for her. Likewise, Christine seemed timid about reaching out for me. Ah, well, let's see if I can get my face slapped, I thought, and went for a kiss.

I did not get slapped; she responded enthusiastically. I was actually not expecting much; the kiss nearly drove me to rapture. Encouraged, I decided to inspect my former playground for significant changes in the landscape. Bottom, hips, waist, all seemed back to normal size with no noticeable flab. Her belly was flat and taut again; she even had hipbones, a pleasant surprise. I inhaled the sweet fragrance of her hair and reclaimed her throat with my lips.

"You love me," she whispered. "You love me, you love me." Could she have imagined somehow that I didn't? What had I done—or failed to do—to convey that? Oh, no, my sweet, it was you who went away; Erik has been here all along, praying for your return.

I unlaced her gown and ran a tentative hand between the breasts that I could definitely no longer claim, still beautiful. Christine sensed my ambivalence. She guided my hands to her sides, where the rib bones give way to the first hint of fullness, and drew my jealous face to its beloved resting place. Feather-light lips and fingers; gently, gently. They were different in a way I could not name: fuller? Warmer? She arched her back and rewarded me with a wordless murmur. Yes, that's right, I'm not your baby; I'm your lover. You remember me, Christine…

I was ripped from my bliss by a sudden effusion. I realized Christine was leaking, grimaced and groaned in disgust before I could stop myself. She gathered her gown around herself and shrunk from me with wounded eyes. I buried my face in my hand and wondered why we seemed to have to struggle for every bit of joy we found. She laced herself up and ran off to fetch her baby. I simply ran off.

In the morning I went upstairs and got Christine a big bunch of flowers. She hadn't gotten any flowers since she stopped singing, and I wanted her to know that she would always be my diva. I had been genuinely moved when she said 'You love me' with such wonder in her voice. If Christine could ever doubt my love, then I had indeed failed her.

When I got home, the creature was flinging cereal and shrieking with delight at the destruction. Christine looked very tired. I felt a fresh stab of hatred for the child. Christine began to rise to get me coffee, but I waved her off that. I would have preferred to give her the flowers without an audience, but the fiend was especially nosy about these goings-on. I moved dangerously close to Mother, I handed her the brightly-colored bundle, and I whispered, "Don't worry, it'll be alright." For the first time in months, it fired a monkey-frown at me. For once, however, Mother was on my side. I got a kiss, a hug, and a couple of tears. I raised a surreptitious eyebrow at my little nemesis to warn it what a formidable adversary I could be, especially if I could get a few minutes of alone-time.

"Erik, I would like to have another before Erika gets much older."

"Don't be ridiculous, Christine. Absolutely not."

"What do you mean?"

I put down my fork and glanced at the spy. It now sat in a special chair, right at the table with us. The idea is that it learns how to eat like a human by example. Anyway, it was omnipresent, there was no chance of a private adult conversation. So there were two sets of nearly identical blue eyes demanding a response.

"I mean no, darling. You have one," I gestured at it, "which is more than sufficient. I didn't want that; I certainly don't want a brace of them."

"How dare you make such a choice for me?" she demanded. The little hypocrite.

"How dare you make the choice you did for me? That," I stabbed a finger at the monkey, which was taking Mother's side and glaring at me, "was your choice: this is mine."

"We'll just see about that," she smiled. Her meaning was clear.

I glanced at the monkey again. I felt we were veering into subject matter which was inappropriate for it, but perhaps if we danced around the subject euphemistically enough, we would be able to wage a successful marital battle after all.

"Oh, no. I am not the hapless Romeo I once was, my dear. I shall not be succumbing to your tawdry blandishments again."

Christine leaned across the table and whispered, "You'd take me right here if I gave you the slightest encouragement."

I could think of a number of unkind things to say. I was feeling childish; my new standard feeling, so I admit I considered saying a few of them. I couldn't. I excused myself to the parlor and reached for the newspaper, hoping to quell my churning stomach.

The child was duly tucked in. Christine perched on the opposite end of the sofa, wearing her We Are In For A Serious Discussion face. With every passing year, she was getting more bloody-minded.

"Erik. I do not want Erika to be an only child. I was an only child, and I prefer—"

"Is this how you intend to seduce me? You need rehearsing, my dear."

"No, I was trying to appeal to your intellect. I—"

"Christine. The time for this conversation, sadly, is long past. Had you discussed your concerns with me before you incubated the first one, I would have told you then in no uncertain terms that I would not be a witting party—"

"Liar! You were a witting party!"

I felt tired and fairly beaten and we'd scarcely begun. The truth is, I've never had any stomach for arguing with her. It makes me ill. "Christine, listen: our home is quiet for the first time in months. You followed me in here, and it breaks my heart to learn that you want to argue. I do not wish to argue, but I want you to be happy. Tell me, what shall we argue about?"

She cried; she curled up under my arm as if she was my angel again. Blessed tears on my shirt…we were all alone in the world. "Erik, please don't say these things. Don't say you'll never touch me again!"

"I didn't say—"

"Yes you did; it's what you meant!"

My eyes began to burn. I had nothing to say, so I smoothed Christine's hair and touched my lips to her forehead. She kissed me once; again. She pulled me down, somehow managing to rearrange us so we were comically, gloriously entangled. She tugged at my clothing impatiently; all I could manage was to clear her skirts out of the way. My fingers sought and found her desire. "No, no," she panted. She had no interest in preliminaries. Just do it, Erik.

There was no life in me. I don't understand it; I wanted her, I always want her. How can a body betray and humiliate one so utterly? Why does my body oppose me?

"Christine, I…think she is crying…" I lied, drawing away.

In an instant my Christine had vanished. The Mother was saying, "Oh, Erik, I'm sorry, but you understand, dear," as she dashed away.

Professional coward that I am, I feigned sleep when Christine returned. She tucked a quilt all around me as if I were the infant; it was a gesture of such heartbreaking tenderness. I have never deserved her; never, never.

As is my usual pattern, I obsessed until I found an explanation. I realized that the child had some strange and terrible magic, more powerful than any I'd ever known existed. It completely vanquished the love charm that I'd created with Meg's murder, leaving me utterly emasculated. I couldn't even feel rage or terror about it; there was nothing but a blind awe. What a fearful little creature it was. I had underestimated it shamefully, at my genuine peril. I understood that I had to befriend it, I had to make it love me.

Christine blamed herself for my…'lack of interest'. Hadn't I called her a draft horse? It did no good to tell her how beautiful she was, or to call her attention to the fact that she was wearing all the same clothes as before, or to take her shopping. She refused chocolates. She barely ate. I became convinced that she intended to starve herself until I made love to her again.


	10. Chapter 10

Christine didn't starve herself; I had forgotten in my alarm that my interest--or lack thereof--was a purely secondary concern since I'd provided her with offspring. Her feminine self-image seemed to be suffering a bit, but as long as she had the fat baby diva, I felt she would muddle through successfully. I made a cursory search for my masculine self-image, could not place it, and turned my attention to back to my theater.

The opera season was getting underway. I had neglected my responsibilities over the past disordered months, so it was pleasant to return to a familiar routine. If left to their own devices during the planning phase of the year, my well-meaning managers could have the place crashing down around our ears in short order. It was delightful to be raiding again, dropping notes and being blamed for absolutely everything that went awry.

They needed Christine desperately, but she gave no indication that she was ready to abandon her indentured servitude. I missed the sound of her voice; even more so when I contemplated being subjected to another season of la Carlotta. I drew her into an impromptu duet one evening after supper. She was washing up, I was making some sketches, and Ophelia was beating anything she could reach with a wooden spoon. I was gripped with a sudden inspiration, so I slipped my arms around her and started singing Othello. Christine abandoned the dirty dishes happily, and the percussion section sat transfixed through the entire performance. After a kiss and a whispered 'Brava', I returned to my sketches, she to her dishes. Ophelia staged her own rendition of Othello with a spoon accompaniment.

"So, do you feel ready to take rehearsal? They need you," I opened, trying to sound casual. I could see her shoulders tighten.

"Leave Erika?"

The fat baby diva paused at the sound of her name. She shot me a glance, smelling a plot.

"A few hours early in the day; by curtain time she'll be going to bed," I reminded her. "We can amuse ourselves for that long."

"I would have to leave before she went down to sleep…" Christine worried. This was clearly a Big Thing, the significance of which was lost on me. Many times she'd been around the house somewhere when the child went down to sleep, but I didn't point this out.

"Well, I know everyone would love for you to return," I ended mildly. I watched her eyes flutter throughout the evening when she'd return to the idea. I just let it cook.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say that you appear to be building a toy, Erik, but that cannot be." My Persian comedian friend.

"If you don't dispose of that grin, I'll see to having you committed. Pour me some wine."

"Here. Where are the ladies this afternoon, if I may ask?"

"Christine has befriended another unfortunate young mother. They meet in the park, weather permitting."

"Ah. This is a very nice Claret, by they way."

"Mm, the last of it, I think. Daroga, I'm not sure I approve of Ophelia babbling with just any chubby young man who happens to be in the sandbox at the same hour as she. We know nothing about his intellectual potential, after all."

"Mm. How exactly would you go about evaluating the suitability of a particular ten-month-old as a playmate?"

"Well, that's another thing, after all, it's a baby. Not very bright, certainly not Ophelia's equal."

"Of course not. Still, they are quite young, I wouldn't be too concerned. These childhood friendships—"

I shot him the Look of Death. A 'childhood friendship' had nearly been the death of me.

"Yes, well, I wouldn't be concerned, Erik."

"Hmph. Never too early…"

"What are you doing, exactly?"

"Music box."

"Ah, so, strictly speaking, not a toy at all."

"Of course not, it's part of her education."

"Yes. Hence the carousel motif, the clockwork horses…"

"It is a child, daroga," I sighed, exasperated. "One must capture its attention somehow."

"Obviously."

"Listen, when they return, worry about the Opera, will you? Christine doesn't want to return to work. How long can a gifted, brilliant woman remain diverted by one infant?"

"You've managed to divert her for nearly six years now. I'm quite proud of you."

"Yes, now, if you'll just step into this mirrored room, don't mind the noose…"

"Uh-oh." Two little syllables from an infant voice could make my blood freeze in my veins.

Christine had gone up to the Opera 'just to look around, I'm not staying'. I was left to supervise the little diva. She was mobile now, and it was no longer possible to convince her to read if she was in the mood to go on a raid. I had taken my eyes off her long enough to scoop a plate and cup into the sink, and she seized the opportunity to make good her escape.

Only two rooms were forbidden to the human maelstrom: my room, which was duly locked, and the music room. The thought of her loose in my music room made me nauseous. She was permitted to enter only if firmly attached to Mother's hip. Naturally, this meant that the music room was the only place in the house where she could be relied upon to turn up if she went missing.

"Ophelia. You know that this room is not for you. Come out, please."

Nothing.

"I know you are in here. Show yourself and there is a cookie in it for you."

Nothing. I crept in slowly, checking under things and looking for breakage, though I had not heard any crashes. Yet.

"Uh-oh." Fortunately, babies don't yet understand that when they talk to themselves, out loud, others can hear. Behind the piano. White pinafore; no, red pinafore. Red hands. Blood—no, ink. There's the overturned bottle, thank you god. Just ink.

"Uh-oh."

"Yes, uh-oh indeed." I snatched up the bottle; unbroken, good…another priceless rug ruined. Lovely. "This is not Ophelia's. This is Erik's. Ophelia does not touch Erik's things. No."

I sounded displeased, I admit; I was trying to make a point. But I did not sound sufficiently displeased for her to wail the way she did. She shoved her ink-stained knuckle into her mouth, crying all the while. Alright, if I scooped her up, my shirt was finished, but there was nothing for it, she was in extremis. She rested her runny face on me, just like Christine; fat inky fingers patting my neck, wailing and babbling. Babies overreact. It seemed an eternity before she would settle, and that after much patting, kissing, and reassuring that she remained a very good girl. It was the first time I realized that my good opinion was so important to her.

By the time Christine returned home, we had disposed of all the evidence, except for the rug. I decided I would take the blame for that when it was noticed. I received a slight demerit because of the strong smell of solvent, but how else would I have gotten the ink off my co-conspirator's hands?

"Erik, you mustn't use those strong chemicals around her; you must wait until we're out."

"Yes, you're right, I forget."

Christine agreed to return to work on a trial basis since we had not set each other on fire in her absence. It would have been a biblical-scale catastrophe had Christine learned of the Ink Uh-oh. I was glad I had stuck to my original lying instinct and resorted to subterfuge. She asked for the ruined dress once; I insisted I could not recall ever having seen it, let her think I'm going senile.

I thought things were going agreeably until we were in the library on one of Christine's rare nights off. Ophelia was engrossed in conversation with her dear friend, the carousel music box, I was sketching, Christine was pretending to read.

"I think the ballet is quite good this year," she opened. No alarm bells tinkled. Did I miss the signs on this one?

"Mm."

"That is what you're working on, isn't it, some new costumes for the ballet?"

"Hm? Oh, yes, I was thinking of something birdlike…" I flipped the sketch around to give her a better look. "Red or teal?"

"It depends. Red always works well," she mused harmlessly, "but I think the teal would be more flattering for some of the girls."

"Mm." I decided I'd do one of each and see what jumped out at me.

"For example, that tall, auburn haired girl. She's new. I'm sure you've noticed her."

"Mm, yes. She is quite striking." Still no alarm bells. Perhaps the baby babble was distracting me.

"I understand she sings," my little bride offered, just as casually as you please.

"Really."

"Yes. Have you heard her?"

"Not that I recall." I glanced at Christine briefly. "Can't have been very remarkable then, hm?" I smiled. Looking back on it, that remark should have laid Christine's fears to rest—leaving out the fantastic nature of the whole idea to begin with.

"So you've not heard her."

"No." I felt a twinge of something here, but I could not identify it.

"You wouldn't have sung for her, then."

"WHAT?" I startled Ophelia. "WA!" She decided to stare at Mother along with me.

Christine went back to her book as if she accused me of vocal adultery every day.

"Christine, I wish you would tell me what's inspired this…extraordinary idea."

"WA!"

"Nothing," came the soft reply.

"Well, then, why—" I admit I was a bit slow on the uptake this time. Not 'nothing'; 'NOTHING', was what she meant to say.

Oh.

I glanced at Ophelia; she and the carousel were chatting again.

"Christine," I said softly—the spy was quite good at intuiting which conversations were None of Her Business—"this is a preposterous idea for a number of reasons, most of all because I have absolutely no interest in anyone but you." That seemed to satisfy her for the moment; when we got to bed I realized it was because she expected follow-through on my part.

Ophelia and I were getting along superbly. I had been hoping that our alliance would have some effect on the child's bewitching effect, and I would be able to reap the benefits of Meg's murder as before. When this did not occur, I was forced to re-examine my original hypothesis. I decided that I wasn't suffering from baby magic after all, but that it had been some unfortunate coincidence that made it seem so. I had simply run all the miles out of Meg's murder that I was going to get. Meg's murder was a spent force, ha-ha.

So I was plunged again into the icy stream of my deviant nature. It was not a problem for me; I'm perfectly comfortable there, after all. But what of my darling bride? She was not the ingénue she had been, and was now perfectly capable of telling me and my lasso to go to hell.


	11. Chapter 11

Crr-aaack! "Aaaaaggghh!"

I reeled Christine in and tossed her over my shoulder.

"Erik! ERIK!" She was flailing quite well for someone her size. I had thought that perhaps she'd have briefly taken me for a stranger attacking her in the darkness of the caverns, but I hadn't fooled her a bit. I was glad that didn't happen, actually, because I suspected I'd be in enough trouble without terrifying her any further.

As we moved into the light of home, she demanded "Alright. Put me down now." Kick, kick. Thump, thump. "Erik." I climbed the stairs to our room. "If you make me wake Erika…put me down!" she hissed.

Closing and locking the door…the spy had not yet embarked upon nighttime raids, but…not tonight, definitely.

I dropped Christine on the bed and had her nicely secured in no time. I am a speedy bastard when I have to be.

"Argh! I though we were through with this," she growled, disgusted.

"Never," I whispered, kissing her.

She snapped at me like a rabid little lapdog, came close to taking my ear off.

"Now, Christine, play nicely," I chided her.

"I'm not playing at all."

"You always say that, my love, but Erik can be very persuasive…"

"Erik would like to think so!"

I loosened her hair nicely, slipped her shoes off, kissed each of her little ballerina toes. She tried valiantly to kick me. One of the things I love most about Christine is how she simply refuses to accept that she's held fast; she never stops fighting her bonds. I take this as a divine sign that we were meant for each other.

"Stop that blasted humming!" she fussed.

"I'm sorry; is it bothering you? I'm just feeling so peaceful…so relaxed…"

"Oooohhh…" she threatened.

"You're exquisite, just lying there in the candlelight…but…" I flicked the knife open.

Christine gasped as her anger was vaporized. Her eyes widened steadily as I lowered the blade toward her chest. She held her breath when it came to rest on the neckline of her dress.

"…it's time to get you out of these clothes."

She screamed wordlessly as the layers of fabric gave way. The first slice laid her garments open to her belly. She actually seemed to think I was going to cut her open. Once she recovered from her terror over that, she was furious.

"You've lost your mind!"

"Some would say that's been true for a long time…but you love me anyway." I shredded her skirts the rest of the way. "There…nicely unwrapped. You may keep the hose though…mm…it makes you look like a rather naughty Christine." The demon was deeply moved by her appearance. I was grateful he'd decided to attend the party.

"Hmph."

My fingers fluttered, barely brushing her skin. "I think you're not as angry as you'd like me to believe…" I called her attention to her very erect nipples.

"I'm just cold," she insisted.

"Erik can remedy that…" I traced her ribs, drew spirals round her navel, over her belly.

Christine tried not to respond, but I heard her breath catch, anticipating my touch between her thighs. "…but…you have to ask nicely." My hand slipped back up to her waist. "You haven't made Erik feel very welcome."

"Untie me," she whispered.

"Nnnoooo…Erik's game, Erik's rules."

Christine sighed. "Take what you want and have done with it then." The demon liked the sound of that; he wanted out. He was in more of a rush than I.

"Are you sure?" I sent my hand on a little expedition.

"Stop it."

"You just told me to take what I want." Christine was struggling to give no sign of the disturbance my efforts were causing; it was delightful.

"I meant for you to get on with it," she grumbled.

"You feel quite inviting, but I'm in no particular hurry. What 'it' would you like me to get on with, exactly?"

"You know perfectly well what I mean."

'No I don't. For instance, this…" I forced a squirm from her, "…is this it?"

"No."

"No, I thought not. Then, there is this…" I slithered down and went for a taste of heaven. I was determined that she would beg me for it, positive I could hold out longer than she.

I kept to broad tongue strokes and offered only an infrequent flick on the bud—she would have to earn that attention. Her legs were tight and she wriggled her toes. "Is this what you mean?"

"N-no."

"Hmm." I moved up to her mouth for more sweet kisses. Christine's tongue was insistent. She felt the demon when I stretched out on top of her and she raised her hips as best she could.

"Christine knows what she wants…she simply refuses to say." I whispered.

I drew away and began to undress. "Stubborn Christine…ah, look. Here he is, here's Christine's friend. He's missed you. Say hello, darling—kiss? Mm, that's my good girl."

I stretched out beside her again. The demon nudged her hip persistently. He and Christine were both running short of patience with me.

"Is this it, Christine? Is this what you want?"

She refused to answer.

"Christine won't play nicely today, hm?" I sighed. "Well, Erik can let Christine go…but then Christine must say goodbye to her friend…" I admitted reluctantly.

I sat between her thighs and slipped the demon's head just over the threshold. Christine wriggled sufficiently to give me a delicious frisson. So welcoming…let her surrender soon, or I'll sacrifice my pride gladly.

"So, which is it, my diva? Freedom, or…fun?"

Still she refused to speak. Stubborn wench, she was dripping!

"Christine…answer, or Erik shall have to beat you."

That got her attention. "You wouldn't dare!"

"I think you've been rather surly this evening. Yes, Christine definitely needs a beating, I'm sorry."

"Erik, no." She sounded worried again, just when she'd though she was about to get what she wanted. Good.

I cut her loose and tied her hands behind her back and her ankles together. She started trembling, and I wrapped my arms around her. "It's alright, darling; trust me."

"I don't like this."

"What did Erik say?"

"Give it a fair trial."

"There's my good girl. Now, on your knees, please…and bend forward, chest on the bed, good girl. Comfortable?"

"I'd be more comfortable if I was untied and we could you-know-what like normal people."

"There you go, speaking your mind again." I swatted her adorable backside.

"OH!"

"Now, it wasn't as bad as all that, my dear." And again.

"Ow! Erik, don't do that again…please."

"Well, now I've got you all in position, and looking delectable, I must admit…I suppose if you don't want a spanking, I'll just have to pray these old knees hold out." I knelt behind her and slipped inside. It has most definitely been too long when you fear you'll spend the instant you feel her snug around you.

"Erik? What are you—oh, god…"

The rear view was exquisite: bound wrists, perfect ass, and disappearing demon. I confess I used her hard, but Christine loved it. As the pounding intensified, I covered her mouth with my hand because she was vocalizing so impressively. I wound up with a decent bite for my trouble, which only made it more fun.

I howled, buried myself to the hilt and exploded inside her. It was some time before the tremors finally ceased and I peeled away from her. I freed her wrists and ankles quickly and drew the comforter over us; we were both shivering from the sweat cooling our bodies.

"Erik…when can we do that again?"

"Ah, not right now."

"Tomorrow? If I can walk?"

"Yes, tomorrow. Christine?"

"Mm?"

"Sorry I waited so long."

"You're worth the wait…but don't let it happen again. Erik?"

"No."

"What?"

"No, I don't think it's a sin. All the animals do it that way."

"What if that's not what I was going to ask?"

"But it was, Christine."

"You're a beast."

"Agreed. And aren't you glad of it…"


	12. Chapter 12

Ophelia looked like a perfect porcelain doll, I must say, in her birthday dress. As her escort for the evening, I selected a burgundy waistcoat in order for us to coordinate flawlessly—I don't have much pink in my wardrobe.

We had two minor crises before we could go up and watch Mother perform. First was the matter of the mask. The baby diva was emphatically against it.

"Erik no," she insisted, trying to pry it off.

"I wear the mask in public, Ophelia. Upstairs is public, there will be lots of people there, and we'll be quiet, won't we?"

"Erik no," she frowned.

"Yes, or we don't go. You choose…though I know I would rather go and surprise Mother."

"Mama!"

"And we keep the mask, and we're quiet. Ssshh."

"SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHH."

"Brava."

The second crisis involved her dear friend, "Monk!", the ubiquitous ragdoll monkey. I made Monk during an attack of sentimentality when Ophelia was about five months old. I had failed, however, to make him an identical twin, so Christine and I lived in mortal fear of Monk coming to some grief. Given all the things that could go amiss the first time a nauseous Phantom occupied Box Five with a baby, I was firmly in favor of Monk remaining at home. However, I was passionately overruled, and ultimately we agreed that since I was allowed my mask, Ophelia would be allowed Monk. Monk, at least, could be relied upon to remain silent.

"Mama!"

"Ophelia!"

"SSSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHH."

"Precisely. Listen, Mother will sing now, do not distract her."

Very well, Erik, I won't distract her, I'll merely use your lap as the launch point to clamber out of the box, crash to the floor below, and die of a skull fracture just weeks after my birthday. Won't Mother be surprised?

Once she was persuaded that Mother's surprise would be ruined if we didn't keep still, Ophelia settled much more quickly than my stomach. By intermission she was asleep.

Christine was duly surprised and moved when we appeared up in her dressing room.

"You are a wonderful Papa, and a marvelous husband. Thank you."

"My pleasure, as always."

"Look how sweetly she sleeps, Erik."

"Now, you mean; she was headed for the orchestra pit for the entire first act."

"You poor dear, I owe you a shoulder rub. Will you please help me? I can't remember a more aggravating costume to remove!"

"Of course, my diva. I live to help you out of your clothing."

"You are a multi-talented gentleman…"

"Mmm, now, if you would like to accompany me behind that screen over there, I'll show you a magic trick…"

"I'm sure you will!"

"I'm perfectly serious, my dear. I just happen to have this hank of rope…"

At the risk of sounding like an adoring father, I confess that Ophelia grew into a child of angelic beauty and unparalleled brilliance. Honestly. She was a thoughtful child, and remarkably articulate for her age. I attribute it to my refusal to engage in baby-talk with her. Oddly enough, she found me endlessly fascinating and shadowed me whenever permitted. She became self-ordained keeper of my pastels and pencils when I sketched, observing solemnly and handing over the next color when it was called for. She perched beside me while I composed, and it was not long before I had given her a rundown of the keyboard which she immediately committed to flawless memory.

Having a shadow was not all tea and cakes for me, however. While Mother was most often permitted to attend to her own affairs with little interference, my free time was severely curtailed. Should Ophelia and Monk declare a tea party, I was duly conscripted to make polite conversation with them until dismissed. Magic demonstrations, boat rides, or raids to the Opera were decreed regularly, and it was no use protesting other plans.

Little girls manipulate with chilling proficiency. Christine and Adele insisted that I was spoiling her atrociously, but that was absolutely not the case. I merely acquiesced to ensure some relative peace and quiet in the home.

I popped upstairs to slip a rose into Christine's dressing room one evening, but was too late. She was already there—alone with our patron, chatting and smiling. I did not follow their conversation; my pulse was pounding and I could not observe the scene for long. I saw enough, however; de Chagny remained flawlessly youthful, disgustingly handsome, and obviously—naturally—as captivated by my wife as ever.

I flew home, unable to name all the emotions clamoring inside my skull until it was fit to burst. I went to Ophelia's room to chase the tormentors away while I watched her sleep.

She could be his, I realized, she's flawless. No one would ever take her for the spawn of a gargoyle. She could live in a fine estate in the country, with sunshine, gardens, ponies, parties, a governess, titled aunts and uncles, brothers and sisters; the best of everything. She could grow up to make an excellent marriage and be Comtesse So-and-So herself.

He would take her if Christine was in the bargain, and quickly come to be charmed by her. Soon, he would look at her and think 'My daughter'; he would forget, for there is nothing of me to see there.

And Christine would be able to forget, too. She would be busy with her new life and duties, as many babies as she wanted, and a normal husband who would be every bit as good to her as I.

I love them both more than life, you understand. And they deserve…well, it is difficult to imagine much better than Raoul, Comte de Chagny.

"Erik, may I come in?"

"It's open."

"It's so dark in here…where are you?"

I raised a hand out of the coffin.

"Oh! You just lie in there?"

"I doze; I meditate. I do my best thinking in here."

"You are a very strange man, my angel."

"Mm."

Christine performed some wifely adjustments to my collar with a faint smile, as I imagine she would somedaydo just before they shut the lid for good. When I contemplate returning to my pre-Christine and -Ophelia existence, the priceless details of everyday life are the hardest for me to renounce.

"When will you tell me what's nibbling at you, Erik?"

"I'm alright."

Christine squeezed my hands, leaned over and kissed my forehead. "You used to be a much more elegant liar." She pinched what there was of my nose. "You're getting to be difficult old man. I shall have to beat you."

"Do you ever think of what you're missing, Christine? What your life could be like?"

"What am I missing, my love?"

"Sunshine. A normal life."

"Ah."

"Ophelia should have a sunny bedroom with a window, and a garden to chase butterflies in, and her parents should be moving in circles that will ensure a good marriage for her, and—"

"You lie in this box and get morbid, Erik, it's just as I suspected."

"No I don't, I was morbid before I lay down."

"I'm perfectly happy living here. I like the place, except for this dungeon of yours. If you want to consider living above ground again, for Erika's sake, we can discuss it. I wouldn't want you to be uncomfortable, though. She will thrive, and chase butterflies and make a fine marriage wherever she grows up."

"If you had a normal husband, you could have more babies—"

"A normal husband?" Christine squealed with consternation. "What brought this on?"

I shrugged. "I want you two to be happy. I want the best for you." I swallowed hard. "I can give you up for your happiness, I can. I can't let you stay down here and…wither on my account."

"I don't feel as though I'm withering, Erik. I feel safe, and happy, and loved. I have music every minute of my life with you. You are the most loving and generous soul I've ever known. Right from the start, you've been completely selfless in your love for me, always protecting, nurturing, comforting; and now that's true for Erika as well. You're brilliant, and gifted, and I learn something from you every day. If I have a regret, it's that everyone can't know this man I know." She brushed my hair back tenderly."And I certainly don't see a suffering child when I look at Erika. She adores you—I see so much of you in her--and she's opened your heart and made you blossom as I never could. Poor Erik, you tried to hard not to love her, I know. I couldn't have chosen a better father for my baby. Now, I hope you heard all that, because I mean every word."

I still was not ready to accept what Christine said.

"I'm not very handsome."

"No, you're not," she admitted. "You refuse to go to Mass, and you like to do weird things. You're a terrible mess."

"Yes."

"I'll take you as you are, Erik, and keep you. Try to believe me." She smiled, held my hand and let me cry.

"You're trying to placate me so I won't kill him."

"I would prefer that, yes," my Persian friend sighed. "But I don't understand why you're worried about him. If Christine's reassurances are insufficient, fine; but judge what you see."

"I told you what I saw: he was alone in the company of a married woman. My married woman. He should be hanged or run through, or both. Both, definitely."

"He paid his respects to the diva, Erik, nothing more. Surely as patron of the opera, that would be an expected courtesy."

"Ha. You didn't see those twinkling eyes, that dashing smile, that trim, elegant physique; I'd sleep with him myself."

"We can all be thankful that your wife has more discriminating tastes than you."

"She was a different person when she made that choice. She was more…naïve. Now, she's looking at him with a more…experienced eye, you know, wondering…"

"It amazes me to think of what you might have accomplished in life if you didn't spend so much time worrying yourself into a frenzy. My friend, listen, if I intended to steal your wife away, I would not do it in the very place where you would be most certain to discover me."

"Yes, but you, unlike our Prince Charming, are capable of abstract thought."

Ophelia clambered into my lap and burrowed her bath-fresh self inside my dressing gown. Little girls smell heavenly.

"Does Monk care for a bedtime story tonight?"

"No. Birthday soon."

"It is indeed, and how old shall you be?" Two fat fingers. "You'll be a young lady, no baby anymore."

"How many is Erik?"

"Mm, considerably more than two; more fingers than we have between us. What would Erik's Monkey like for her birthday, does she know?"

A nod.

"New baby."

Oh.

I caught up to my treacherous bride as she sat brushing her hair.

"Here, let me," I offered, taking the brush.

"Mm, that feels wonderful," she sighed, closing her eyes.

"Christine, what is this nonsense you put Ophelia up to about a baby?" I asked mildly.

"She asked you about a baby?" she sounded genuinely shocked.

"You know she did," I accused with a smile.

"I didn't put her up to it, darling, honestly, it was all her own idea. I did everything I could to dissuade her when she mentioned it to me. I thought it had all been resolved. I told her it wasn't up to me, or even just me and you; that it was up to God as well. I never dreamed she'd take it up with you."

"Hm, the translation was considerably different. She said you said to ask me, because 'Erik and god can get the baby for Mama'."

"Oh no!"

"Oh yes. She reminded me that I'd have to attend Mass in order to confer with the Almighty, but I told her that we have a special arrangement whereby we chat out-of-hours, in my room. So she dismissed me: 'Go ask now'."

"Erik, stop, I can't laugh anymore."

I scooped Christine up and deposited her on the bed.

"Little girl; light as a feather."

She caught a handful of my shirt.

"Come here, I want to show you something," she whispered.

"Hm…look, darling, I believe you may find this of interest as well."

Thus we arrive at the present, or nearly so. Last year was quite eventful.

Christine persuaded me that I should be civilized for Ophelia's sake. We agreed to divide our time between the Opera and a house outside the city. I designed it with plenty of secret passages, trap doors, and caverns underground so I can feel secure; I think it will be alright. I did the underground work myself, before Christine beat my vanity and paranoia into submission and insisted I hire the construction out. She's right, of course; this should see the place completed in my lifetime. I will have to dispose of the unfortunate laborers when the work is done; I cannot leave them alive with intimate knowledge of my home.

On the subject of beatings, I received the most severe one of my adult life last year. I never would have imagined a girl of Christine's size capable of it, but it was quite remarkable. It began harmlessly enough when the demon and I happened to come up with an interesting diversion one morning. We snuggled up to present the idea to our sleeping darling, blissfully unaware that in a matter of seconds our life would be flashing before our eyes. Suffice it to say that she did not share our enthusiasm. When she recovered the power of speech, Christine warned us that if we ever tried to wake her in a similar fashion again, the demon would come to unimaginable grief, and I would be damned unhappy, too.

After that debacle, I groveled shamelessly: flowers, jewelry, chocolates, breakfast in bed, child care, domestic chores, meal preparation, absolutely impeccable behavior in every way. Still it took me two weeks to learn whether I was to remain a married man.

I managed to hold Christine's biology at bay until last year as well. I was the same nauseous, headache-ridden wreck that I had been the first time she chose to reproduce. Christine didn't understand this at all. Her feeling was that since everything had gone perfectly with Ophelia, I should be able to relax and enjoy myself this time. She stubbornly refused to see that by my reckoning, we were brazenly courting divine retribution by insisting upon such a miracle yet again. Ultimately, I devised a plan which will remain in place until Christine's child bearing proclivities cease or I die, whichever comes first. If the child appears normal, it will live. If it comes out a monster, I'll smother it and tell her it stopped breathing as it slept—it's utterly credible that there could be internal mistakes as well as the obvious ones. Please, don't chastise me with the tragically heart-warming tale of how my mother allowed me to live. It's not murder to kill an infant such as I was. I've done murder; I know.

Despite my visions of doom, Christine came through it easily and we have another perfect little girl: Sylvie, about two months old now. She looks like she'll be another blue-eyed, golden angel. In spite of what Christine believed, I wanted another girl. Boys are of no use to anyone; look at me.

I tried to prepare Ophelia as much as possible for what a disappointment 'her' new baby would be, but her excitement continued unabated until that first icy dip in reality's pool when Mother was unavailable. My irrational panic of being abandoned is lessened slightly by ministering to Ophelia's identical panic. We help each other through, and together, we have begun work on a children's opera. We have a few melodies and the barest framework of a plot. It will have plenty of magic, dragons, an incredibly brave little princess who commands a troop of heroic monkeys, and an evil vicomte.

Shortly, I shall be staring sixty years in the face. My back aches in the morning; too many years in the damp like a rat, Christine says. I have not yet been able to elicit a promise from her that when I'm crippled and useless, she'll take me down to my coffin and leave me there, but I intend to persist. I hope I last to seventy; I would like to see the girls grow up a bit. But whatever happens, it's alright. If I go this minute, I've had more than I have ever hoped for; certainly more than I have ever deserved.

Fin

A/N: Thank you all for welcoming me to the world; I hope you enjoyed this first offering. I'll begin posting the next soon.


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